


How the Mighty Fall (in Love)

by Queerapika



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Captivity, Child Neglect, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Injury, M/M, Pining, Sexual Tension, Social Issues, War, past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2020-02-09 06:05:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 60,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18632323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queerapika/pseuds/Queerapika
Summary: FE Fates AUFor years, war has waged between the kingdoms of Hoshido and Nohr, interrupted only by fleeting periods in which they maintain their distrusting truces. The current ceasefire is lasting seven months now, longer than anyone could have hoped for. And after a harsh winter, the people of Nohr turn their eyes towards the east with longing.Peace, they whispers in their prayers at night.Peace, they mumble to each other over the sparse meal on their dinner table, gruff and determined.Peace! Their voices rise to a drunk choir in the shadiest corners of the shadiest bars. Peace will set us free.And like a spiteful answer to all their pleas, a Hoshidan soldier is plucked from the skies.Leorio cares little for this war. As a butler, his loyalty lies with Princess Alluka. As a healer it lies with those in need, regardless of rank or nationality. But when he comes to seek the Hoshidan prisoner, all he wants is a night without birdsong keeping him awake. He does not expect to stumble right into a plot that may change both of their kingdoms forever.Leorio is not what Kurapika has asked for. But he is what Kurapika needs: a hand offered with kindness.A strange alliance is formed.





	1. The Prisoner and The Bird

**Part 1: Capture**

_An act of kindness_  
_Is what you showed to me_  
_None more than I can take_  
_Oh, none more than I can take_  
  
Bastille, "An Act of Kindness"

* * *

 

**1 - The Prisoner and The Bird**

 

For years, war has waged between the kingdoms of Hoshido and Nohr, interrupted only by fleeting periods in which they maintain their distrusting truces. The current ceasefire is lasting seven months now, longer than anyone could have hoped for. And after a harsh winter, the people of Nohr turn their eyes towards the east with longing.

 _Peace_ , they whispers in their prayers at night.

 _Peace,_ they mumble to each other over the sparse meal on their dinner table, gruff and determined.

 _Peace!_ Their voices rise to a drunk choir in the shadiest corners of the shadiest bars. _Peace will set us free_.

And like a spiteful answer to all their pleas, a Hoshidan soldier is plucked from the skies.

He falls, like a star, not far from the Bottomless Canyon, where he is retrieved, measured, shackled and bound, and finally dragged to Windmire, the capital of Nohr. And so he gets locked away in the darkest core of castle Krakenburg’s dungeons, a chess piece of unknown value and unknown shape. Not even the court is allowed to witness his arrival, but they catch a glimpse of the beast he rode on, as it is brought to the stables. A Kinshi hen, the peacock’s greater cousin. Her plumage is of a startling white; the tail feathers a swirl of brick red, lavish gold and aquamarine blue. She is not a thing to be owned and oh, how she lets them know.

 

Night after night, the bird’s song haunts the castle. Like mourning. Like despair.

And every beautiful wail pierces through Leorio and lodges deep within the confines of his ribcage. Winding him up like a clockwork toy. He does not sleep, only chases some fleeting slumber in-between his many duties.

The bird is dying; it’s starving itself. No one dares to go close enough to save it - no one but Prince Killua, but for all the scratches he earns, the beast refuses all the food that is offered. And as it is starving itself, so is its rider. An act of solidarity? Or simply a response to captivity? Leorio does not know, nor would he care if he were not so damn tired.

By the fifth day, exhaustion pulls so hard on Leorio’s strings that he nearly collapses during Lady Alluka’s morning toilette. And that’s when he decides that he’s had enough. He shakes the lights dancing behind his eyelids like mocking stars, straightens his steps, and heads to the kitchen.

He puts together a light breakfast; something easy on the stomach yet exquisite in flavors. Arranges it on a tray which he lifts precariously. Thus equipped, Leorio begins his descent into the castle dungeon’s gloom.

Precious little light graces the kingdom of Nohr, but here the darkness has a weight, presses against a poor fellow from all sides. Creeping over the skin, looking for a weakness, a crack of misery where it could slip in. This is a place where no hope can flourish.

“I have come to see the Hoshidan prisoner. My Lord has need of him.”

The guards regard him and the contents of his tray, then demand for his weapon. Leorio sets the food aside to hand over his daggers to the first guardsman while the other pats him down. “Clear,” he says. His voice is gruff, but his words remain flat. Bored. “Alright, follow me.”

And Leorio does.

“Good luck trying to get anything out of that Hoshidan mongrel. Bastard said barely a word since they brought him in. Wish I could say the same about his damn chicken.”

Leorio snorts. “Well, you know Prince Killua. He is never satisfied with a fact unless he has tested it for himself. Or rather, until he has had others try it for him.”

The guard lets out a grunt that might be approval, might be dismissal. His social rank does not allow him the freedom to criticize their masters’ motives. He leads Leorio down a maze of corridors, passing shadows that creep behind the bars, moaning like nothing corporeal.

Eventually, he stops in front of a cell that looks like every other, except the figure huddled on the floor is a spot of brightness on Leorio’s vision and for a moment, he wonders if his eyes play a trick on him again.

“Hey, shitstain. You have a visitor,” the guard grovels as he cranks the key on the lock and swings open the door. Leorio’s heart suddenly develops second thoughts and attempts to leap up his throat, but he takes one, two, three steps forward regardless. Just enough to enter the cell and let the door fall heavily shut behind him.

“You have fifteen minutes,” the guard grunts, and trots back into the shadows.

(And Leorio does not like to think about what it means, that the guards will turn a blind eye to the visits that the prisoners receive.)

He has never met a Hoshidan before, but he knows the tales. He has heard the dark mages’ accounts and knows that those folks have an almost feral taste for violence. A resilient and stubborn people whose pride far outweighs their sense of self-preservation.

As Leorio squints against the dark, his first impression of a huddled figure proves false. The prisoner sits upright in the center of the cell, his posture impeccable. His back is turned against the entrance, his legs folded neatly underneath him in a position that the people of Hoshido call a _seiza_. Light colored hair woven with red ribbons falls down to narrow shoulders. A slender figure, built for dexterity rather than strength. The prisoner’s uniform is of a stark sun-bleached white color, accented with trimmings of indigo and lavish red. Untouched by abuse.

(Yet.)

Leorio gets the impression that this man has been treated with nothing but respect ever since he came here. Perhaps an important general of the enemy’s armies.

“Have you come here for a purpose or do you just intend to gape at me like a circus animal?”, the prisoner asks, using the trader’s tongue. His accent is melodious, his word choice refined. “Because you could have done that from outside the bars.”

Leorio sputters. His first mistake: to show weakness before the enemy. “I was sent to bring you breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Sure you’re not,” Leorio challenges. He lowers himself carefully on his knees, then places the plate on the ground. Picks up the little pewter kettle and pours tea into a wooden cup until the air is filled with the aroma of bergamot and orange rinds. “And I spent the last nights sleeping like a babe, with not a single bird’s cry disturbing me.” Was it petty for a servant of his status to revert to such biting sarcasm? Perhaps, but he instantly felt better about himself. “I come with an offer.”

“Tell your master they are wasting their time. I have nothing they could want. And even if I did, I would hardly sell my soul for a mediocre breakfast.”

Leorio huffs. “A breakfast worthy of a noble, you mean. Prepared by one of the royal family’s butlers. But no, this food comes without any favors attached to it. Merely a plea for an open ear. Alternatively, we could also just sit here in silence and waste fifteen minutes and i will leave with my tray full. And then the eggs will have gone cold, which would be a shame.”

No response. The prisoner’s silence almost has a stubborn quality to it.

Leorio sighs. He rubs his burning eyes for a moment... and forgets to open them again. But it’s nice, isn’t it? To have a short break, caused by this stranger’s ignorance. Fatigue casts her heavy veil over him, presses down on his limbs, threatens to pull him down into sweet nothingness. Leorio’s head sinks on his chest - and he jerks awake with a start. His head swims and it takes effort just to focus his gaze but when he does - he realizes that a pair of dark eyes has settled on him.

“I-”, Leorio begins, then remembers that he owes this man neither excuse nor apology. But when did the prisoner turn? And how? How did he not make a sound when his left ankle was shackled with a heavy steel ring?

“You should be more careful. Had you come here with proper cutlery, your throat would be slit by now. In fact, I could still break this wooden spoon and stab you with it,” the prisoner says, all casual, before dipping said spoon into a jar of honey and spreading some across a scone. Then he breaks the pastry in half and offers a piece of it to Leorio.

Who is speechless.

“What’s the matter? I thought you wanted me to listen? So talk. And eat, before the honey drips off.”

Leorio needs a moment to revive his stunned tongue. “You know,” he begins, carefully testing the words. “For a prisoner you are doing an awful lot of bossing around.” He takes a small bite of the scone, to prove that it is not poisoned.

“I aim to exceed expectations.”

“Right,” Leorio grumbles. Watches how the prisoner struggles to keep a dignified pace as he licks his fingers clean of honey as he reaches for the next scone and eyes the smoked ham. Leorio gets the hint and tastes some of the meat, so the prisoner can stuff it into his mouth with unprecedented greed. Which begs the question: why has this man rejected the meals he has received thus far, if it was not an act of defiance? Arrogance? Or do the prison guards even go as far as serving these people spoiled food? Leorio will have to make some inquiries. But first things first.

“The issue is this: you have a bird you might want to see cared for. A bird that keeps the people up at night and while the king has decreed that your animal is not to be harmed, sooner or later, someone will snap. The bets are on Prince Illumi so far, assuming that starvation doesn’t kill it first. I reckon you would want to avoid that. Lucky for you, my master is quite fascinated with your bird, so it is my duty to find a way to save it.”

(This is only half a lie. Prince Killua has indeed taken quite a shine on the beast, but technically, he is not Leorio’s master. Nor does Leorio follow any orders but the ones that his own conscious put upon him. Someone has to act. Someone has to give the people their sleep back.)

“So really, you are only benefiting from this situation,” Leorio concludes. “Tell me how to care for your beast and I will do it, no questions asked. But for its own safety, it needs to fall quiet.”

The prisoner slows his hungry hands and licks the grease off of them. “She is mourning. I was taken from her, and now she doesn’t know if I’m alive or if she’ll ever see me again. You’d have to let me see her-”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

A stubborn frown. “You just said you’d do anything.”

“Anything in my power,” Leorio clarifies. “I don’t have the authority to arrange a little heartwarming reunion for you and your bird, and neither does my master. Is there really nothing else? Something like a treat that she wouldn’t refuse?”

“She might eat, at least a little. She has a craving for lemongrass and alfalfa, but she’ll need something to sustain her. Chicken bones would be good, but they must be uncooked. If you think you can sneak a whole chicken in her kennel, do it. Something to appeal to her hunting drive. Rice, eggs and oats are good too. Some stinging nettle and mint for the digestion. Oh and violets. They are not much for nutrition, but she likes the way they look and they’re not poisonous to her.”

Leorio regrets not bringing something to take notes. Not only that, but watching the prisoner grumble over his greasy hands, he realizes that he did not bring napkins either. What an embarrassing mistake for a butler of his rank!

“Wait,” Leorio calls out just as the prisoner resigns to wipe his hands on a less visible part of his uniform. “Take this.” He pulls out one of his embroidered tissues and presses it against the Hoshidan’s fingers. “Keep it for now. I have more of them and, er, I suppose you don’t get many napkins down here?”

“I get fresh water. And what little of that is provided is meant for both drinking and cleaning up.”

It sounds like an accusation, and although Leorio knows it’s not his fault, he feels shamed.

“I cannot promise that the food will soothe my bird,” the prisoner adds. As he finishes cleaning himself, he folds Leorio’s tissue and tucks it carefully into a pocket of his uniform. Gestures for the butler to take a sip of the tea, so he might have some too. “If anything, it might give her the strength to go on for many, many nights.”

Leorio raises the wooden cup to his lips, drinks it near empty, then puts it back to the middle of the tray. “So, there is truly no way to stop her singing?”, he asks as he refills the cup.

“Well, it depends.”

“On what?” Surely, Leorio is imagining things but he could swear that the prisoner’s eyes spark with a mischievous glint.

“How many Hoshidan lullabies do you know?”

 

Too soon, their conversation comes to an end.

Leorio is escorted back with a half-pillaged tray. He promises himself to bring something more practical next time, something that can be pocketed and rationed. Because there has to be a next time, right? His head is swimming with facts and melodies and he tries to remember them both by orchestrating all the words to the tune, but...

But he’s so exhausted and already he can feel things slipping away. He’s scared that by the time he gets to sit down with a pen and paper, most of this will elude him.

As it turns out, remembering is not the biggest obstacle. Even if he manages to gather everything, how is he supposed to deliver it into the stable of this large, aggressive bird without risking being torn to shreds?

 

“I don’t know what you’re doing here, but it looks plenty stupid.”

“Maybe so,” Leorio says. “But since you’re here, do you mind holding that rope for me?”

Said rope is attached to the bucket that Leorio holds, not very securely, in one outstretched hand. The other he uses to keep his balance on a menacingly wobbly stepladder.

“So, what are you doing here?”, Canary rephrases, curiosity piqued. He could ask her the same question, as none of the butlers had any business being in the stables in the dead of night. But maybe Canary had been on an errand when she saw the glow of his lantern. “Please tell me you’re not poisoning the bird. Because if you are-”

“I’m trying to feed it! Preferably without _becoming_ the food. Seriously, why does everyone think I’m trying to poison folks?”

“Maybe your face just doesn’t look very trustworthy.”

“Look,” Leorio says, and that’s when he sees the bird dashing at him. “Fuck.”

He was smart enough to put up the stepladder at some distance from the stable door, but the sound of its large body slamming into the wood shakes him to his core.

A deafening _WHOOMP_ , then silence. He doesn’t dare speak.

“Is it... dead?”, Canary whispers.

He looks down at her, then back at the stable door. “Shit.” He stumbles off the ladder, still holding on to the bucket as if it could save him, and hammers his fist against the stable door. “ _Shitshitshit_. Hey. Hey, don’t be dead, okay? Come on.”

“Oh, Prince Killua is going to be so _pissed,_ ” Canary remarks.

It isn’t the prince that Leorio is concerned about. All he can think of is the prisoner with his straight shoulders and his proud brows and how Leorio promised him that he would do his best to care for the bird. The man trusted him. If the bird is dead, Leorio will never be able to face him again.

And then, a distressed chirp.

“Canary, give me the chicken. I’m going in.”

 

“What happened to your face?”

A well-deserved question. Luckily, Leorio’s hands are too full to resist the urge to pick at his scabs. “Let’s just say, your bird didn’t appreciate having her wing prodded and examined. She’s fine-”, Leorio adds hastily as the prisoner rises to his feet. “Just a bit ruffled.”

“She’s not the only one, it seems.”

Leorio ignores the remark, and lowers first the tray, them himself. He sits down cross-legged. Lowering his voice, he continues: “I remembered the napkins, this time. And I brought something that’s a little easier to... keep. And some fruit.”

The prisoner sits down. They break bread and Leorio claims the smaller piece, since he already ate. This time, he also brought two wooden cups, so they wouldn’t have to share. He pours tea for the two of them and presses out a lemon slice over each cup. For flavor. And to keep the prisoner’s teeth from falling out.

“You’re favoring your right leg,” Leorio remarks offhandedly. “Do the shackles hurt you?”

The prisoner laughs mirthlessly. “Yes, I believe that is one of their purposes.”

“Let me see.”

“We barely just met and you already try to catch a peek at my ankles?” He clucks his tongue. “Does your master know they have a lecher for a butler?”

Leorio chokes on his tea, while his companion stuffs another slice of bread into his face, followed by some chicken cuts.

“I’ll have you know I am a certified healer. There is nothing indecent about the human body to me.”

“And what kind of healer cannot even heal the scratches on his own face?”

“I-” Leorio puts his cup down and rubs his neck. “Well. Healing staffs are a treasured good. We’re not supposed to waste them on unimportant things.” Unimportant things such as themselves. “Why use magic for something that the body can overcome on its own? Besides, it would be a poor butler who cannot tend to a little cut here and there, or a kitchen burn... so please, may I have a look at it? Maybe there’s something I can do.”

The prisoner narrows his eyes, and regards Leorio with such intent that he fears that for once, he has shared too much of himself. He feels exposed. But the tension in the other man’s shoulder diffuses a little. He unfolds his legs and stretches out the left one. Leorio scuttles closer.

“I’ll be gentle, I promise,” Leorio says, although he knows that his assurances will do little good. He can feel how vary the prisoner is of him, which makes Leorio twice as self-conscious. He shoves up the heavy iron band, careful to touch as little skin as possible. “This looks sore.” As suspected. Below the ankle and at the Achilles heel he finds open blisters where the metal rubbed against the skin. “Do you spend a lot of time pacing?”

“There’s little else to do.”

“Try to keep it to a minimum. These sores might easily get infected if you rub dirt into them. You need to keep this as clean and dry as possible. Luckily, the tea I brought is a chamomile infusion. Helps with an upset stomach when it’s hot. Good against infections and sore throats once it’s cooled. Give me a minute and I’ll-” Leorio trails off, already grabbing for the kettle. He places both his palms around it, not quite touching the pewter. He breathes deeper now, focusing his eyes only on the space between his hands and a he does, a thin crackling layer of ice forms on his palms and his fingers. A deep chill emerges from Leorio’s skin.

“There we go. It should be lukewarm about now, that’s enough.”

When he looks up, the eyes of the prisoner are still on him, darker and more serene than ever before. “You’re a member of the ice clan.”

“Not really,” Leorio waves off. “Not anymore. Just an orphan. One of many after the great plague, you know. The village couldn’t provide for us all, so the king was kind enough to take us to the castle and have us raised among the staff. Haven’t been back in many a year.”

“Yes, I’m sure it was kindness that motivated the king and not- gah!” The prisoner gasps as Leorio reaches for his foot and raises it carefully. “You’re cold.”

“Shush now. You’re a warrior, aren’t you? Surely you have faced worse than that.”

That grants him some angry silence. It’s kind of funny, if he thinks about it. How everyone complains about the Hoshidan’s refusal to speak, while Leorio struggles to make him shut up. Looks like the man could be a real chatterbox, if he wanted to.

(Or if he was trying to manipulate someone. Leorio is no fool. Soft, yes. Too eager to please. An easy target for deceptions that appeal to his kindness. But he is aware of it. And he doesn’t forget where his loyalty lies.)

(Not with the king. And not with Nohr. He serves his lady and his lady alone.)

He rinses the ankle with chamomile infusion, then dabs it dry with a newly washed tissue. Leorio pulls off his cravat; he presses a second, dry tissue against the sore skin and wraps the ankle with the longer fabric of the cravat.

“There you go. The bandages will help with the chafing, but try to keep that foot elevated.”

“What does LP stand for?”

“Huh?”

“Your tissue; the one you gave me the other day. The letters LP are stitched into it. Your initials, I presume?”

Leorio frowns. “You presume correctly.”

“So...”

“So?”, Leorio asks innocently.

“If you keep being unnecessarily kind to me, I’d like to know your name. So I can remember who to thank.” The prisoner tilts his head curiously. His body seems relaxed - leaning back, one leg angled, the other still stretched out, foot resting on Leorio’s hand.

Leorio opens his mouth. Closes it again. His neck begins to prickle and his cheeks grow warm. It’s a trap, isn’t it? Of course it’s a trap. Which doesn’t change the fact that he is blushing like a school boy and that his heart beats too loudly.

He sets down the man’s foot gently. “I don’t know your name either. And I’d like to call you something else than _the Hoshidan_.” Or the prisoner. A fact that Leorio does not mention because it would be rude to draw attention to the situation he’s in. Surely the man does not need a reminder.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the Hoshidan muses. “Given the circumstances, I’d like to keep all that is still mine, including my secrets. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“Right. In that case, you can call me Leo.”

“Is this short for something?”

“Does it have to be?”

“Not necessarily. But Leo means lion, it’s a warrior’s name. You’re more of a lamb. So I’d say it stands for Leopold or... Leonardo.”

Leorio snorts. “Nice try. Too bad you’re way off.”

“Too bad there’s not too many options. Leon?”, the prisoner tries. As if it’s a game he can play. “Leonis? Leory?”

Leorio freezes. “I think that last one’s pronounced Lee-roy, not Le-ory. You know a lot of Nohrian names.”

“Maybe,” the Hoshidan says quietly and turns his body away from Leorio, towards the food. He takes three apples and hides them in the folds of his garment, then makes a few hard-boiled eggs disappear in the same manner. “I think the time is almost up, so I’m sure you don’t mind.”

“Absolutely not. Take some of the hard cheeses too, they keep well.”

“No thank you.” The man’s features twist in disgust. “You Nohrians and your _cheese_.” He hurls the world like it’s an insult, and Leorio, who knows the market value of a good wheel of cheese, is offended. “Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

The other sneers. “It’s nothing more than spoiled milk by another name and it upsets the stomach just as fiercely. I’m not one to turn away from new culinary experiences, but I don’t quite see the purpose of consuming something that travels the gut like liquid fire.”

“I- that’s... that’s not something that’s supposed to happen.”

The prisoner grows very quiet. Licks his dry lips. “...it’s not?”

“Well, no? And… did you just say you have the same issue with milk?”

“Yes.” His answer is barely above a whisper.

“We cook all our porridge with milk,” Leorio says as something dawns upon him. Granted, the prisoner’s porridge was prepared in equal parts milk and water, but... “So that’s why you’ve been rejecting the food. You weren’t stubborn, you just couldn’t eat it.”

“I- I thought this was done on purpose. Give me food that would make me weaker, so I would talk.”

“That’s-” Leorio cuts himself off. _Horrible_ , he meant to say. But all too plausible. Their royal family invokes respect and terror, and few of its member shy from violence. The king is resolute, but rarely cruel, unless when it comes to raising his own sons. Prince Illumi reveals no hint of emotion, but his detachment does not make him less dangerous - in fact, he is even more unsettling. A man who finds joy in killing can be called a monster, but what of the man who deems murder as a practical solution? A mere necessity? And then there is Prince Milluki, a patron to all the men of science in the realm, so long as they deliver a steady supply of mechanical toys. A man with stunted emotional growth and the temper of a child. No, the Hoshidan cannot be blamed for assuming the worst.

“I’ll talk to the kitchen staff. They can cook your porridge with water. I mean, it’s not as good, but-” But since water is cheaper than milk, no one would complain, he is sure of it.

“Isn’t someone going to ask questions, if you keep giving me such special treatment?”, the Hoshidan asks carefully.

Oh, someone is absolutely going to ask questions. He will have to be prepared for that. Leorio clucks his tongue, urging himself to think. “But you’re no common prisoner, are you? You have information that the king wants. They need you alive.”

The silence that follows is thick, and panic spikes in Leorio as he realizes his mistake. He shouldn’t have talked about this, shouldn’t have let on that he understood what a critical tool this man might become for the turn of their on-and-off war with Hoshido.

“I think you should go now,” the Hoshidan says.

“Right.” Leorio gathers the tray. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Don’t forget to rest that ankle.”

 

Only after he leaves, Leorio realizes that he forgot to ask the prisoner to teach him more lullabies. Tomorrow, he tells himself.

Tomorrow.


	2. Compassion

A week passes like this: with song and muted conversations, hogging food and stealing a chicken from the kitchen every third day. Secret trips to the market to purchase violets and the less common alfalfa. It’s a bit tough on his purse, sure. But Leorio _has_ a purse. He is past the days of starving himself, and as mind-boggling as it may have sounded to him a few years ago, he can afford the luxury of picking his sleep over his coin.

Every night after his lady has retired to bed, he creeps into the kitchen to prepare a meal of grains and fruits and herbs and pours it in a bowl, with which he smuggles to the stables. Leorio hums to announce his presence, still not quite able to wrap his tongue around the words. And he opens the door of Senritsu’s stall just a crack. Just enough to reach into the space and place that bowl on the floor.

Then he waits. He likes to stay until the great white Kinshi hen trots over to feed. Often he tries to cluck at her, tries some sort of communication, no matter how foolish. He’s not so stupid to try and pet her, of course, but he no longer fears the sharpness of her beak or her claws.

Senritsu still sings, but it’s different songs, melodies that carry joy and playfulness. Leorio tries to hum them back at her, until he grows tired. And when he parts with her, he whispers soft assurances. Promises, that her rider is faring well, and that he will make sure it stays that way. She can’t possibly understand, but it still feels like a duty he has to fulfill.

Senritsu still sings, but only when Leorio is near.

 

The mornings around ten o’clock are reserved to breakfast with the Hoshidan, who teaches him songs in his native tongue only to mock his horrible pronunciation of the words. Who calls him Leo like he’s issuing a challenge. And the name is like an ill-fitting costume which Leorio itches to discard.

Wednesdays and Sundays are washing days for the prisoners, so when Wednesday comes around, Leorio slips his prisoner an extra bar of olive soap and a jar of aloe gel for his ankle. In return, he receives a rare smile, which renders him a stammering mess. A smile, in a hopeless place like this, was like a flower blooming without light - and just as sweet. Surely that was the reason why Leorio forgot to breathe for a second. Not the fact that the Hoshidan has dimples, and that he wrinkles his nose just like a rabbit when he chuckles.

And in the haze of the moment, when the Hoshidan softly says “thank you, Leo”, he forgets himself.

“It’s Leorio, actually.”

The prisoner clucks his tongue. “ _Leorio_ ,” he repeats, teasing the vowels in an almost intimate fashion that makes Leorio’s skin prickle.

“I need to go,” he blurts out and rises to his feet too quickly.

“Already? You just came.”

“I- I have an important business to attend. I’ll see you tomorrow, I promise-”

“Kurapika.”

“Huh?” The word sounds strange to his ears. A phrase of goodbye? His Hoshidan barely suffices to translate the lullabies they practice together. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“That’s what you may call me.”

“Kura....pika?”

“I’m glad to hear you butcher it like you butcher everything else,” Kurapika mocks playfully.

Leorio leaves the tray of food behind, filled with the strange certainty that he just won and lost something at the same time.

Kurapika.

The name rings inside of him like a secret that is too large for his chest, something valuable but undeserved. Something dangerous, because it makes Kurapika vulnerable. But it’s also a sign of shared trust.

 

Even throughout the day, Leorio’s mind keeps wandering back to the darkness of the dungeons and the single piece of light that resides within. But if it shows on his face, the other butlers don’t remark on it. Only Canary teases, when she catches him humming to himself. Smiling to himself.

And someone else notices a change in him.

 

“You’re so distracted today, kitten,” Baise remarks. She sits languidly in the old armchair in Leorio’s quarters, her long nails testing the worn patches of the suede. Every now and then, she runs her hands through her pink hair as if to twist it up to a knot, then lets it fall to her shoulders again. Leorio regards the spectacle through the looking glass, then focuses his attention back on his own appearance. He asks her to elaborate as he slips out of his butler’s gloves and the jacket of his black morning suit. Leorio loosens his cravat and pulls it off, then lets his hands run over his purple-checkered vest. He looks... good, right? Trustworthy. Not at all like a traitor to his country because he isn’t one. To show compassion is no crime, no matter if he’s granting it to a fellow Nohrian, or a man from Hoshido.

“Usually, you have your hands all over me the second I step through your door.”

“It’s been a busy week.”

In fact, he barely has any time to spend leisurely now. Leorio checks his pocket watch. Only an hour until Lady Alluka would go to bed.

“I can come back later, if it’s more convenient to you,” Baise suggests.

“No!”, Leorio hurries to say. “I’ll make time for you, don’t worry.” He can be quick and efficient, even if Baise likes to take her time and play games. He turns to his on and off lover and opens his cufflinks. “Where do you want me?”

“A bit more enthusiasm, please,” Baise purrs. “I got all dressed up just for you and you barely looked at me.”

“You’re wearing your proper work uniform.”

“Exactly.” Baise says. She uncrosses her legs and leans forward, running a finger along the curve of her barely covered breast. “I know how much it makes you drool.”

“To be fair-” Leorio starts, and then he loses his train of thought when Baise raises, unfastening the collar of her cloak. Whoever designed the dark mages’ outfits had clearly been thinking with his cock. For the women, it was a body suit fashioned almost entirely from black fabric so sheer that they might not be wearing anything at all. It stretched from the jewel-adorned underband of the bra across Baise’s sleek stomach down to her fuchsia panties.

The garment’s rules on what ought to be covered fail to make any damn sense at all. Therefore it is accessorized with footless thigh-high socks and high heeled sandals which hide the ankles, but not the toes. For modesty, apparently. Because nothing gets a man hard like ankles.

The uniform is tricky to take off and even harder to slip on, so most of the time Baise does not bother undressing. Leorio cannot complain, because all that he desires to touch it still accessible.

“It’s too bad that you’re strapped for time because I would have liked to strap you to your bed,” Baise purrs, grabbing Leorio hard by chin. “But if you’re a good boy and eat my pussy right, I might let you cum on my tits.”

Leorio is a very good boy indeed.

 

Later, as they lie side by side, heady from pleasure, Baise is just satisfied enough to let Leorio play with her nipple and kiss her softly. And against his lazy lips she asks: “So, what’s their name?”

Leorio leans back a little. “Whose name?”

“The name of whoever is haunting your mind.”

“That’s... there’s no one.”

Her smile is bittersweet. “Kitten, I know you. Yesterday, you dashed past me and a group of my girls without even looking back. Usually you slow down a little, to better appreciate the view. Whoever it is, they must’ve gotten you pretty bad if not even a cleavage can entice you anymore.”

Leorio stops fondling and leans over to kiss her collarbone. “There’s no one, I swear.”

Baise chuckles and tugs him by the hair. Always a bit rough, this woman, even in her affections. “Oh, darling, I don’t mind. It’s not like you’re the only one I let in my bed either. I just want things to be honest between us. And if you’d rather stop seeing me to get with them, I’ll go get my distractions elsewhere.”

He can feel the heat rise to his face again. He is neither an dishonest man, nor does he have a taste for cheating, but he can see where her suspicion comes from. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh?”

“I-” Leorio sighs and rolls on his back. He may have to lie to her and he can’t do that when her cool green eyes are on him. “There’s someone I have to care for, lately. And they don’t make it easy. So I need to carve out time for that without sacrificing my duties for Lady Alluka, and that’s… draining, to say the least.”

“M-hm. You seem to be enjoying it, though.”

“I... am?”

“You’re looking a lot less like a cranky old man lately.”

Leorio sits up and sputters, but that only prompts Baise to laugh at him louder. She shoos him and then shoves her tit back in her bralette’s cup. “You should clean yourself up now. Your princess is waiting.”

Nursing his wounded pride, Leorio rises from his bed, always obeying the call of duty.

 

Leorio lives from day to day, always focused on the tasks at hand and what tomorrow may bring. Time passes quickly like this, uniform, when every day carries the same shape, brings the same chores.

How easy it it to forget that it may be limited.

 

 

In the darkness, Kurapika lies pondering the fate of his operation, which now rests precariously in the hands of a man who seems incapable of deceit. Who couldn’t even keep his true name to himself for a whole week and who spilled his past at their second meeting. Kurapika huffs as he wonders just what exactly prince Killua’s intentions may have been when he sent Leorio to make contact.

Not that he is ungrateful.

After the first few days in captivity, Kurapika realized that he had grossly misjudged his capability to bear the conditions in the prison of castle Krakenburg.

He thought he knew what he was getting into. He thought he knew what it meant to be hungry again, to be lonely again. But he has let himself grow soft, spoiled on love and sharing and merriment. Even among the horrors of war, there is always that glimmer of hope that sustains him. A family to return to.

Nothing could have prepared him for this darkness, thick and humid. For the echoes that lived in this prison. The moans of despair, the screams, the clink of metal on metal when the guards rattled the cell bars with their spears - all this noise throws him back to that horrible day. Every time he closes his eyes, he is eleven again, stumbling over the lifeless bodies of his parents.

And his whole world is burning.

Screams and the scent of charred flesh fill the air-

Heavy footfall echoes through the hallway and the horror fades to colored blurs behind his eyelids.

It’s the morning guard, stomping through the halls to light the torches and mark the beginning of a new day. Next they will bring buckets of water - two for today, because it’s a washing day - and one small piece of soap. Bedrolls are replaced, and the prisoners are given grease stained frocks for a day, so they can wash their own clothing if they choose to do so. When the guards make their second round, they collect the wet clothes and take them someplace to dry.

After the great plague that consumed so many of their people, the Nohrians became obsessed with cleanliness and hygiene, a right that was denied to no one, not even the lowest of the low. Kurapika waits until the guards are gone before he pulls the frock down to his waist and unties the ribbons from his hair, so he may rinse it.

He scrubs the ribbons, too and the handkerchief that Leorio gave to him. Although it will take longer for them to dry within the cell, Kurapika doesn’t trust the guards not to lose them. He doesn’t even trust them with his clothes. Every time he parts from them, he silently resigns to never seeing them again and imagines a possible future in ugly frocks.

Then again, Leorio’s never ending helpfulness might even grant him some new clothes. While lacking in subtlety, the Nohrian butler was at least good company. A man with entertainment value - easy to fluster, delightful to tease. Too trusting, but trustworthy. The kind of man who’d make a shocked noise when he walks in on you half naked while you try to wash yourself, as Kurapika is about to learn. It sounds kind of like the yelp a dog makes, when you step on his tail.

The guard that accompanies Leorio mumbles something unintelligible and opens the cell door.

“Fifteen minutes. You know the drill,” he barks, and returns to his post.

And Leorio just. Stands there.

“You’re early today,” Kurapika remarks as he peers over his shoulder.

“I, ah,” Leorio says. Looks down at Kurapika, before he remembers that turning around is an option, which he immediately does. “My master is heading to church soon, so they will have need of me. I didn’t mean to-”

“Peek? Of course not.” Kurapika is sure that Leorio also didn’t mean to blush, yet his ears turn delightfully red. He makes sure to give his arms and torso a quick rinse before slipping the frock back over his shoulders. “Whatever happened to _‘I am a healer, there’s nothing indecent about the human body to me’_?”

“I mean, there’s a difference between exposing yourself willingly and someone barging in.”

“Indeed there is.” Kurapika likes the way Leorio thinks. Likes the amount of consideration he puts into everything he does. If he was a man under Kurapika’s command... oh, but Leorio is not and so Kurapika does not dwell on the thought. The only thing he commands here is dust, and as long as the butler only visits to ensure his well-being, this will not change too soon.

Kurapika buttons up the frock and announces that he is done.

“How is your ankle doing today?” Leorio’s own ankle pops when he lowers himself into a crouch. He puts down the tray between them. Today there is a single black calla lily resting in between the wooden bowls.

Kurapika reaches for a bundle of grapes and says: “Why the flower?”

“Oh, that’s a Sunday thing. We decorate the halls with them, and we still had plenty left, and I know you don’t really get nice things down here, so I thought-”

“You know that it’s rude to court someone who doesn’t have the option of running away, right?”

“I don’t-”, Leorio says, then stops himself and squints. It makes him look five years older. “Do all Hoshidans have such a terrible sense of humor?”

“I don’t know, do all Nohrians blush so easily?”

Leorio scratches his jaw and looks away quickly, but Kurapika still notices the crooked smile that settles on Leorio’s lips. By the heavens, this man was the worst spy Kurapika ever met. It would have been charming, if it didn’t prove a risk for all of their lives and probably the fate of their kingdoms too. Unfortunately, Kurapika finds himself smiling back.

He shouldn’t encourage this behavior any further. More than that, he should speak up - maybe give Leorio a little message for his master, asking for a sign, some sort of proof that all this waiting is not in vain. But being caught by the Nohrian army was never part of the plan, and the delay was Kurapika’s fault alone.

Kurapika wishes he had his brother’s faith. Who could say if Prince Killua hadn’t changed his mind already? Maybe he considers a direct action on his part too dangerous as long as King Silva’s eyes are watching. Then Kurapika will be rotting here, until the Nohrians find a cruel use for him.

“Leorio?”

“Yes?” He whips his head around a bit too quickly.

“Do you know how to braid hair and weave in ribbons?”

“Sure. I do it all the time. Do you want me to do your hair?”

Kurapika raises a brow. He wonders what aspect of serving Prince Killua requires regular braiding. But perhaps... perhaps Leorio has a younger sister. Orphaned did not mean without family. And it’s easy to picture him as a doting older brother. Or a doting husband, now that Kurapika thinks about it. Leorio wears no wedding band, but that does not mean there is no woman in his life. Someone with his looks and social status - surely there are plenty of women trying to catch his attention.

Leorio looks like a man who would enjoy the ‘bliss of marriage’ that Queen Mito likes to talk so much about. The kind of man who would sing praises about what a beautiful and gentle creature his sweetheart is.

Kurapika’s chest grows tight. “If you’d be so kind?”, he says. “I tried for myself on Wednesday, but I think I did a poor job of it. I’m not used to it.”

Kurapika knows that he only needs to ask, and his curiosity would be quenched. But does he _want_ to know if Leorio is promised to someone?

“I think it looked nice. But... we don’t exactly have a comb here. I mean, I could use my fingers-”

A spike of panic seizes Kurapika. “Forget about it then. I’d rather leave my hair unadorned before I let your ice cold fingers anywhere close to my skin again.”

Leorio takes offense. “Hey! They’re not always ice cold.”

Maybe not. But Leorio is always tall and gentle and compassionate and Kurapika realizes too late what a bad idea it is to invite him quite so close that he could feel the man’s warm breath on his neck. He can’t let that happen. Never. It’s bad enough that he has become so sure of the other’s presence that he has begun to think of Leorio as someone he has a claim to.

Kurapika shuts himself off; he forces down that frustrating part of him that aches so badly for a connection. Blames it on his isolation. And continues eating quietly although he feels no real appetite.

And when Leorio departs early for the day and leaves Kurapika to his silent qualms, he is glad. He rubs his temples, as if it could alleviate the pain thrumming behind his eyes. Kurapika retreats to his pallet and tries to rest - but instead of dreams he only finds memories.

 

_A gentle breeze stirred the wind chime in front of Kurapika’s quarters. He had left the sliding doors open, so he could take in the stone garden in the center of a palace, monument of tranquility. The perfect view to help him focus on his studies._

_As he was bent over battle reports and old myths of the country alike, a visitor came to stop by. She entered without waiting for his permission - a privilege owned only by a mother or a regent. In a way, Mito is both._

“ _I see you’re up already. Has Pairo not ordered you to rest?”_

_Kurapika waved it off, but not without affection. Pairo always ordered him to rest and Kurapika always preferred to ignore it. “I have been all healed up, so I see no reason to stay in bed. My scars are not going to hurt less if I lie on them, so I might at least get some work done.”_

_Mito came to sit by him. She placed her soft hand on his, beckoning him to look at her. “We almost lost you this time. You know how much I value your expertise, but your well-being is worth so much more. Promise me that you won’t strain yourself so much.”_

“ _I will try. But the Nohrians get more brazen every day. They test our borders-”_

“ _I have been to the same council meetings as you, I am aware of the situation,” Mito said sharply. “And I have plenty of generals, but only two that I call sons. It’s bad enough that Gon is so reckless, must you really try to outmatch him in this regard?” Her hands clasped his tighter. “Please. Think of your brother. He looks up to you so much. If you push yourself too hard, he will too.”_

_Kurapika could not meet her eyes. Could she not see that Gon and Pairo and her were the reasons he was pushing himself? Did she not know that he was fighting to protect his new family, his chance at a second life? The Nohrians had no mercy in their lust for blood. If they did not rest, neither could he._

“ _My Queen,” he said, because after all this years, it was still hard to call her by her name. “Is there something you wish to speak to me about, or did you just come to scold me?”_

“ _There is something, actually.” She withdrew her hand and turned to look at the garden. “I was wondering… you’re always so busy, with sparring, with your studies; you fill your every hour with work. Isn’t it time to make some room for the more enjoyable things in life? You’re going to turn twenty and five next spring. A good age for settling down.”_

“ _I…” Kurapika started, and fell quiet again. His thoughts were spinning, but he found no words. But Mito did not seem eager for a response. She went on._

“ _I just wish to see you happy. Every time I look at you, I feel like your thoughts are somewhere else. Looking for something. I think the bliss of marriage would do wonders for your soul. Soothe some of the frowning lines on your forehead. Of course,” Mito adds. “I know these things cannot be forced. Just… promise me you’ll think about it. You are a handsome young man with a sharp mind, and an honorable warrior. Why, half the women in the realm must be in love with you!”_

_She chuckled to herself, already so taken with the idea that it pained Kurapika. Even if she was right, there was not a single woman in Hoshido who he could pick as his bride, because he could give them nothing in return. It was simply not in his nature._

_He would have to trap a poor unfortunate soul in a loveless union. A union without children because he could not bear to touch his wife, much less lie with her._

_He wanted to throw up._

_Kurapika closed his eyes and wished himself back to the battlefront, where different rules applied, even if no one spoke about it openly._

_(It feels like it had only been a few weeks since he had wandered into Pairo’s tent one sleepless night in search of meaningful conversation, only to find him awake and very much unclothed, his mouth occupied with the toned body of general Nana. In truth, it had been a year and then some. A year in which he had learned to watch out for the spark in a soldier’s eyes that stemmed from something more ardent than admiration. The revelation of a possibility that felt life-changing, although he had not known - and still did not know - how to translate the desire in his chest into something with purpose, something pleasant and beautiful.)_

_How foolish of him, to yearn for something at all, when he should be glad that he was breathing._

_Would his mother have asked the same of him, if she were still alive? Would his father have?_

_Surely he could pretend, for a little while. Buy himself some time._


	3. Turning Point

When the fever takes hold of him, it’s like a punishment of the gods. The price he pays for his hubris.

Kurapika is burning.

He, who is supposed to master the heat of the flames, is consumed by it. His vision swims, his body bleeds strength, every limb hurts down to his bones. His head pounds to the rhythm of an army marching.

And then, he is suddenly no longer alone.

A friendly face appears in a flurry of worry and stumbling words, too fast for Kurapika to grasp. Calm hands stroke his cheek and measure his pulse. They pull away his clothes until he is covered only by his fundoshi - and then they press heavy compresses on his skin. The soaked fabric is cold, so cold that it burns him too.

Kurapika screams.

“Sh, sh, sh,” that friendly voice says. “It’s over in a second.”

And when the first shock has passed, the pain subsides. Kurapika’s vision swims with tears, and it costs all his energy to turn his head and look at the man who has come to save him.

“Why are you here?” He has to know. Needs to.

“Because you’re ill, and I’m a healer.”

“You have no staff on you,” Kurapika notes and Leorio’s beautiful face darkens.

“A staff cannot help you now,” he growls, like he is issuing a challenge. “What you need is cold compresses and lot of fluids and soup to sustain you - and rest. You need to let yourself rest, you hear me? Don’t worry about the guards. I’m not going to let them hurt you. You’re safe, for now.”

Promises they both know he can’t keep, but that Leorio can’t help making them anyway. Because that’s the kind of man he is and Kurapika grows fond every time he remembers.

“Does your master not have need of you?”

“Not more than you do.”

“That’s a dangerous thing to say,” Kurapika whispers. Dangerous and foolish. Compromising the whole operation, and there is no way Prince Killua would have sanctioned this. Which means that Leorio came on his own accord.

“Well, I’m a dangerous man.”

“You’re lucky I’m too weak to laugh at you, that’s what you are.”

And Leorio laughs - a vulnerable and frightened thing, but still kind. Still beautiful.

There is a different kind of flame kindling in Kurapika’s chest, and he isn’t sure if he can extinguish it before it’s too late.

 

 

Leorio stays the whole night, armored with broth and tea and many pieces of cloth which he dunks in a bucket of water and puts on Kurapika’s feverish limbs, to force his temperature down. He replaces them every hour, and makes sure to chill the water right before that. Just a little, so as not to stress Kurapika’s body too much.

Leorio spoon-feeds him broth, and when he thinks Kurapika is asleep, he picks up a scissor to clip his nails, lest he hurt himself. He has seen people grow delusional and claw at their own skin before. Better not to tempt fate. And all the while he works, Leorio hums the songs that the Hoshidan has taught him.

He doesn’t sleep for fear of losing his patient.

 

By midnight, Canary comes down to fetch him some fresh water, and more soup - this one a thick creamy brew that smells divine, like mushrooms with a pinch of cummel. A few slices of fresh baked bread rest atop the bowl.

“He finally fell asleep,” Leorio says. He takes the soup with an appreciative nod, but his eyes don’t stray from the sick prisoner for long. “Is this for me?”

“Milady Alluka insisted that one of us keeps an eye on you down here, and she wants me to tell you that you’re worrying her.”

“A severe crime,” Leorio agrees. The princess has few allies among the court, and and his duty consists of more than just to tend to her dresses and her hair. He is meant to be her protector. Her friend. But he can’t leave Kurapika like this.

“You’re worrying all of us, Leorio,” Canary adds, quieter. “First the bird, now this... you’re wasting yourself away. And for whom? A man who wouldn’t spare you the same kindness. Our enemy, in case you forgot.”

“It would be a sad world if we only did the right thing just because we expect something in return.”

“Sure. But I’m asking if he’s really worth the trouble.”

Leorio pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply. He feels worn out. Too tired to argue, but he will. “These halls are full with desperate souls, most of them far beyond redemption. But this man... what crime did he commit except to fight for his land? What right do we have to keep him here, under such terrible conditions?”

“He was caught spying beyond the border.”

Leorio’s shoulders sag. “Look. Thank you for the soup. I’m not trying to make this difficult, I swear, but I’ve talked to him the past few weeks and he’s not- not some sort of bloodthirsty animal. Yes, he’s the enemy. Yes, he has no reason to care for any of us. But by the end of the day he is a human being. Capable of sympathy. And I can’t just... leave while he’s so weak. I feel like as soon as I walk out of this cell, he will perish.”

“Leorio,” Canary pleads and she kneels by his side. Takes his hand. “I know why you feel like this, but it’s just a fever. This is not the plague.”

“I know,” Leorio whispers. And he knows that Kurapika is not Pietro. A warrior, not a starving little boy whose parents were too poor to even have a doctor look at him. He will be fine, for a few hours. “But I’m the only one who gives a shit about him. If I leave-”

“Then I’ll take over for you.”

“And who’s going to look after Lady Alluka then?”

“I’ll ask Amane to cover for me. Prince Killua is getting dragged from one council meeting to the other these days, he won’t even miss her. Apparently, as long as we have this fragile truce with Hoshido, our Lords have no excuse to ignore the suffering of their people anymore.”   
Leorio chortles, despite himself. “God, what a treasonous bunch we are.”   
Canary raises to her feet and gives Leorio one last encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, they won’t hang you. You’re too tall for the gallows.” She straightens her back. “Alright. It’s almost time for Milady’s sleep draught, but I’ll be back once I’m done. And then you’ll go get some sleep.”

“I still need to feed-”

“Already done, chicken and all.” Canary bows with a little flourish. “I aim to serve,” she says mockingly.

“Thank you.” Leorio croaks. “I owe you one.”

“I’ll remind you.”

 

He collapses onto his bed and sleeps like a stone for four hours, until the morning bells ring. Feels twice as dead when he rises, but after a cold wash and a shave, Leorio at least feels a little more... present. (He nicks himself three times. He hasn’t nicked himself since he turned twenty-one. He’s also fairly sure his cravat just looks... off, but since he can’t pinpoint why, he leaves it.)

Leorio eats while standing as he prepares Lady Alluka’s breakfast, and does not mind the strange looks it earns him from the kitchen staff. His mistress is too kind to say a word about the haggardness of his hair or the dark circles under his eyes, but he feels her concern.

Princess Alluka does not ask him to stop, and that’s the point that matters.

After the second night, nearing the 4th hour of morning, the fever breaks. Shortly after (and no doubt by design), Amane seeks him out to summon Leorio on Lady Alluka’s behalf.

Well, Leorio thinks. Here it comes.

It’s not like he expected to see this through without a punishment. He neglected his duties, after all.

He looks back once more at Kurapika’s sleeping form, his face for once relaxed, his light hair golden in the flicker of the torches. Leorio doesn’t regret anything.

He just wishes he could say goodbye.

 

 

Kurapika is shaken awake, not very gently. He groans, unwilling to open his eyes for some rude intruder. He wonders if the offending hand belongs to Canary, an appropriate counterpart to her stubborn, unimpressed silence.

“Yo,” an unfamiliar male voice calls. “Wake up. We need to talk.”

Not Canary then. The voice speaks Nohrish, then repeats their request in a very heavy accented Hoshidan. That catches Kurapika’s attention. He opens one eye, then the other. Shifts his head to take in the figure in the center of his cell.

“I don’t think we’ve been formerly introduced yet,” the young man says. He is donning lavish purple robes, seamed with thread of gold and his white hair frames his head like a corona.

_ Like a sun _ , Kurapika remembers Gon saying. He even recalls the sparkle in his brother’s amber eyes.

“You shouldn’t have come here yourself,” Kurapika replies. “I don’t think your brother is going to appreciate it.”

Prince Killua grins. “No, probably not. But I still had to thank you for the ugly scar you left on his face.”

Kurapika rolls his eyes. “I didn’t do it to be petty. I was fighting for my life.”

“Anyway. I’m sorry it took me so long to come here, but you showing up really freaked out Father. Wouldn’t let me out of his sight. He’s still kind of convinced there is an army of Hoshidan spies creeping towards our castle.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Kurapika said dryly.

“So. You being here. I guess that means Gon is really keeping his word, huh?”

“Yes. He was ready to fly here himself.” Of course, no one would be foolish enough to let the crown prince fly unprotected right into enemy territory.

“And the part about the, um...” Prince Killua trails off and scratches his arm. Turns his gaze to the floor. Kurapika wonders if maybe all Nohrians  _ did _ blush easily or if he just has the bad luck to attract those who do.

“The laws have been rewritten before I left Hoshido. I expect that once you arrive, you may be wed immediately, if you so wish.”

“Oh. Cool.”

_ Cool. _ Kurapika breathes in deeply and swallows the bitter lump that rises in his throat. He tries to find a shred of mercy for this nervous princeling who agreed to something that’s so much bigger than himself. Their kingdom would allow for something that Kurapika never even dreamed of hoping for - that a man may choose to marry another man, that a woman may choose a wife. He would have chosen a different word than  _ cool _ to show his appreciation.

Too bad that it’s already too late for him.

But that’s not Killua’s fault, nor Gon’s.

“Thank you, by the way,” Kurapika says. He remembers his manners, after all. “For sending someone to look after me. Even if his eagerness far exceeds his ability to stay low. You have a good man under your service.”

“Right.” Killua clears his throat. “I meant to talk to you about that. I didn’t send Leorio. He’s not even one of my butlers. My sister is questioning him right now, to see if he might be spying for someone else-”

“He’s not,” Kurapika interrupts. “He’s a horrible liar.”

“I mean, I hope so. I entrusted that man with her life. But my brother has a way of getting into people’s heads and we have to make sure. Either way, Leorio is not important right now.”

Kurapika would like to disagree, ardently, but since he presumes that their conversation is happening in a delicate time frame, he lets Killua speak.

“I think I came up with a pretty decent plan on how to get us all out of here, relatively safely. So, here’s what we need to do-”

 

 

The spell lies on his shoulders and legs like an iron weight, pushing him down into the seat of the armchair. It takes effort to raise his head high, but Leorio still strains against it. He needs to meet the eyes of his princess.

“I don’t understand,” he slurs, although it’s not his treatment that confuses him. It’s the big tears that roll down her cheeks, the way how she trembles, her knuckles white as she clings to the obsidian staff. Apologies spill from her lips like pearls.

“My Lady, please don’t cry.”

Somehow, that only makes her cry harder. God, he is the worst butler in the history of butlers. And as the thought slips into his mind, the words are already on his tongue. He feels drunk. Helf-formed sentences swirl in his head like a whirlpool, and for a moment he closes his eyes and gives in to the feeling of vertigo. “Please, make it stop.”

“The drug should be working now,” Canary informs. Although she looks uncomfortable and... smaller than usual, she does not waver from their mistress’ side. “You may start.”

“How will I know if it’s working?”

“Ask him something that he wouldn’t want to answer.”

The princess nods and wipes her cheeks. “The black and white kitten that I had nursed back to health when I was fourteen, what happened to her?”

He remembers. And is compelled to share. “Prince Illumi drowned it. Said if it wasn’t strong enough to survive on its own, it would never make a good hunter and if it didn’t hunt vermin, he had no use for it.”

“You told me she was reunited with her family.”

“I lied. I didn’t want to make you sad.”

Alluka stifles another sob. Canary speaks up in her stead. “Why did you choose to seek out the Hoshidan prisoner?”

“I just wanted to sleep. His bird was keeping us all up at night, so I thought if there was one person who knew how to make it shut up, it would be him.”

“But you kept going back,” Canary remarks.

“He taught me lullabies to sing to his bird, so it would soothe her, but I never got the words right. And I noticed his ankle was sore. I figured out his stomach couldn’t handle the food we usually give out to the prisoners. Someone had to take care of that. He was in need, and I couldn’t just ignore it. I know it was too much. I didn’t have to. He...” Leorio interrupts himself and worries his lip. “He kept teasing me about it. He kept teasing me about many things.”

The princess puts her staff into Canary’s hands and approaches Leorio slowly, hands folded over her stomach. Her gloves are stained with tears and makeup smears, but her eyes had finally run dry. Leorio is overwhelmed by the urge to take a tissue and wipe the khol from her cheeks, but he has lost that right.

“I’m sorry I disappointed you, my lady.”

She shakes her head vigorously. “Did you tell anyone else about what you were doing?”

“The first time I came around I told the guards I was acting on Prince Killua’s behalf, so they would let me through. They never questioned me after that.”

Canary hisses audibly, as though she had cut herself. “That’s bad. If they think the prince has ordered this-”

“It’s not going to be an issue,” Alluka assures her. Then, sweetly, she calls Leorio’s name. “Do you know who this prisoner is? Do you know his function in the war?”

“He said his name is Kurapika. I assumed he is a general, based on the way he carried himself and the ribbons he wore tied in his hair. But we never spoke about it. He didn’t say much about his role in the war and I didn’t ask. But I noticed his scars. He has so many of them.”

“What about his family?”, Alluka presses on. “Did he speak about that?”

“He said they’re dead. My Lady?”, Leorio asks. It’s easier to catch his breath now, as the spell starts to fade. “Will I be allowed to see him again?”

“I’m afraid not. Is that... is that going to be a problem for you?”

“I-” He frowns, eyes dropping to the floor. “I hadn’t thought about it. I didn’t want to think about it. Like, either the King was going to have him killed or tortured or use him as a hostage, to get something in return. I just... want to know he’s alright. That someone is looking after him. That-” But even as he speaks, Leorio’s chest begins to seize up. Kurapika gone, lost for him forever. No more playful teasing. No more hard won smiles. By the gods, he was going to  _ miss _ him.

“Please. Could you ask your brother to find a way to spare his life? I know he’s the enemy. I know I shouldn’t have talked to him. But I can’t bear to see him hurt.”

Alluka reaches for the stone pendant of her necklace, the one which she never takes off. She twists her thumb into the chain. “You know I can make no such promises. I am as much of a prisoner to this castle as he is, just one with a larger cell. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

“You’re... lying,” Leorio says curiously. So many years he has raised her, so many years he has trained himself to read all the signs of her distress. “You shouldn’t be lying, your words make so much sense, but your body language-”

“I think we’re done here,”the princess says, and wrings her hands. “Canary will bring you to your room. You are not to leave it until I summon you again. You will receive no visitors. If someone knocks on your door, you will feign sickness. That is an  _ order _ .”

 

 

“I think your plan has one critical flaw.” Kurapika runs tongue across the edge of his teeth. His arms lay motionless at his side, muscles taut. His hands are balled into fists. “Someone has to take the blame for this.”

“I fully expect Leorio to get arrested within the hour after they find you cell empty.”

_ No. _ Kurapika clenches his jaw. Of course they would suspect the one person that had been walking in and out of his cell daily. It wouldn’t even matter who truly freed him - they would look for Leorio first. And that is…

“Unacceptable.”

“This is going to buy us a lot of time,” Killua argues. “We could be miles and miles from the castle while my family still tries to get answers out of him.” Answers which Leorio does not have. Kurapika thinks of Prince Illumi’s dispassionate black eyes and wonders by which means they will question Leorio. What punishment will await him if he fails to provide. His heart is beating frantically, giving rhythm to every angry desperate _ no _ that is sounding in Kurapika’s head.

“You mustn’t involve him any further. Warn him. Give him time to pack his clothes and run.”

He can feel the prince’s gaze on him, can picture him narrowing his eyes. “If we allow him to flee before we get the chance to, it will cause suspicion. The guards will be at edge, my father’s attention will be drawn away from the cries of the common people and back to the castle.”

“He could run in the confusion that follows our escape.”

“Perhaps he could. Then what? Where is he supposed to go, who’s going to take him in? All he has is his duty and no one will hire a royal butler who fled his master.”

“I don’t care about your excuses!”, Kurapika hisses. He squints his eyes shut as anger burns bright behind his lids. His fingernails dig hard into his palms. He breathes, once, twice, as his blood soars through his veins. “He’s your subject and an innocent man, he doesn’t deserve to be hanged for your  _ schemes _ .”

Killua blows air through his lips. “Why do you even care?”

It’s the last straw. Kurapika rises slowly, keeping the blanket draped around his shoulders as he is almost naked beneath it. He fixes Killua with eyes blazing scarlet. Flames lick at the tips of his fingers; they hiss and sizzle like angry beasts. The prince flinches in his chair.

“This man might have easily saved my life, twice, in the short time since I came here. If you refuse to adapt your plan in a way that spares him, I will refuse to take part in it. Do you understand me? Without Leorio, there is no plan.”

Killua blinks. And then he leans back, crossing his arms behind his head with a grin so smug, Kurapika wants to kick the chair from underneath him. “Well, I have to say, that is a more extreme reaction than I had hoped for, but we can work with that.”   
“Work with  _ what _ ?”

“Relax. Sit down. No one’s gonna touch a single ruffle on Leorio’s cravat. I was just curious if you were the type to sacrifice a single life for the greater good. Which is, like, noble in theory, but not so much if the life at stake belongs to my sister.”

“You were testing me!”

Killua snorts. “’Course I was. You wanna know why you’re still alive? Because my father doesn’t know what to make of you or where your alliances lie. Oh sure, you seem to be loyal to the Queen, but who’s to say that you don’t want the throne to yourself? And if that’s the case, you might easily benefit from thwarting my arrangement with Gon. Couldn’t let that happen.”

“This is ridiculous,” Kurapika mutters.

Killua leans forward, challenging. “Oh, is it? You are the Queen’s legal heir. If something were to happen to her and Gon, you have a claim to the throne. Even if Prince Ging showed his face again, who do you think would the council approve of as the ruler of Hoshido? A disgraced coward, who has fled from responsibility once or the decorated war hero who has the sympathy of the people on your side? And why else would you have chosen the former Queen of Kohga as your bride, if not to profit from her experience?”

Kurapika wants to laugh. Only a Nohrian could come up with a twisted logic like this. “I assure you, I hold my family as dearly as you hold your sister. I promised to Gon that I would see you and her safely escorted to Hoshido and I stand by that. You have nothing to fear from me.”

Killua tilts his head. “See, you say that but I would argue that not fearing you is a mistake that nearly cost my brother his eye and I am not going to make the same mistake as him. But as it seems that you have become quite invested in Leorio’s fate, I suggest a deal. I meant to have him sent away to one of our summer palaces as a ‘disciplinary action’ for slacking off and on the way there he would be snatched away by one of our spies. I had this real cool idea about faking his death and letting him resume a fake identity somewhere on the countryside,  _ but _ .” Killua indulges in a most dramatic pause. “Now I think he might be better off keeping an eye on you.”

 

 

Dusk settles over the palace of Hoshido.

The songs of wooden blade meeting wooden blade grow quiet. No longer do arrows dance through the air on the training grounds. Generals and soldiers and council members retreat to their homes while the nobles tend to their studies, practice their poetry, or koto play. The evening is a time for little pleasures. But not for all of them.

Oito roams the halls with purpose, her white and peach yukata billowing around her in her haste. Still trying to remain some grace, even as her heart is beating fast. If the queen summons her at this hour, it could only mean one thing: Kurapika.

Three weeks have passed since Kurapika set out to free the prince and princess of Nohr from their family. Three weeks and not a single sign of life, no news from their spies - but maybe tonight.

The guards posted outside of Queen Mito’s quarter do not stir when Oito draws near. Only once she sets foot into the room, the door is slid shut behind her.

A single candle flickers on the table in the center of the room, struggling to chase the shadows away. It shines upon a cup of tea that has long gone cold. It illuminates the pages of a novel that lies in front of the queen, open but unread. Mito’s brown eyes stare blankly, focused on a distant point far beyond her reach. Lost in thought like this, belonging to no one but herself, it is impossible to miss how gaunt her face has grown. Her eyes red, the cheeks blotchy - she has been crying.

Oito approaches the queen carefully, like she would with a frightened fox. A mother herself, she knows how deep a parent’s grief can cut.

“You wished to see me?”, she asks, keeping her voice low.

Mito blinks. Her gaze shifts slowly, almost curiously, before it settles on the other woman. “I did. I apologize for the late hour - I hope Woble is already in bed?”

“Hardly. She has very stubborn opinions on what an appropriate bedtime is, which usually collide with my own expectations. But Abe-san agreed to watch over her, so we may talk.”

“She is growing well.”

“Like a weed,” Oito agreed. “As it should be.” Since Mito made no motion to rise, Oito took it upon her to join the other woman by the table.

“Children are truly a joy to behold, for all the trouble they bring us,” Mito says. A tired sigh ripples through her. “I... seek your advice on a matter that is dear to me.”

Oito nods slowly, and folds her hands in her lap. “Then you shall have it. But why me? Surely you have no lack of advisers.”

“I have heard all that my advisers had to offer and I find them... biased. I need a word from queen to queen.”

“I’m afraid I no longer have the right to bear that title, my Lady.” For what is a queen without a kingdom? With no people to rule because what is left of her brethren have sought refuge all across the neighboring countries? The only titles that Oito can claim for herself are mother and widow.

“But you used to rule. And is it not true that among your people, women would often choose to share a household with a friend or a relative, rather than seeking a husband?”

“They also formed communes. To seek independence but also... well. Not every woman longs for the embrace of a man. May I ask... is this about the new law that you implemented?”

Mito lets her gaze sink to her own hands, calloused from years of fighting practice. The hands of a woman who never expected to sit on a throne, but also was not content becoming some diplomat’s wife. Who instead chose a career in the army, like her princely cousin.

(They call him the wayward prince these days. Way too kind a sentiment and more than he deserved for absconding and leaving all the responsibility with Mito.)

“Well,” Mito says with a huff. “The council is outraged that I signed off the law despite the disapproval of most of them. They call it a joke, a mockery of all of our traditions without a true purpose. They say that while a union between two men might be tolerable, a union between two women cannot be allowed, as none of the spouses can provide for one another. And when I told them that more careers will be opened to women to amend for that, they started to shriek and throw tantrums like a band of monkeys.”

The queen’s face is marred with frowns and sorrow, and a trace of anger that mirrors Oito’s own.

Oito sneers at the ignorance of men. “Well, most of them are haughty fools who didn’t have to deal with honest work for a single day in their life. They read their books and pretend that all the knowledge in the world can be found between those pages while being estranged from the life that the common folks live. Women have always taken up work. The war takes husbands and fathers and sons - and who is left to take their positions?”

“I know,” Mito whispers. “I am not concerned about the morality of the issue. But I am left wondering if this law fills a need beyond enabling a union between Nohr and Hoshido. What if there is no desire for same sex unions among the people? What if Kurapika’s mission failed and-” She cuts herself off abruptly.

Because Kurapika always sees his missions through. And to consider that it has failed means to consider that Kurapika might be lost to them forever. A hollow expression settles on the queen’s face and Oito feels a pang of guilt.

“Do not fret. What you are giving the people is an option - one that few of them might have even considered possible. Give them time to get used to the idea, to re-examine their hearts. They will come. But you must stand for your choice. Don’t let the council silence you. I think you did something very brave and very right - but the people who seek to marry under this new law will need your support.”

“I just wish he were here,” Mito whispers and her lips tremble. She wrings her hands. “Kurapika would know what to say. He would make them listen. Pairo may be just as witty and sharp-tongued, but it’s Kurapika they respect.”

“That’s because they are terrified of him, my lady,” Oito muses. It earns her a rare and ghostly smile.

“He can be a terrifying young man sometimes.”

“And resourceful. Analytical and stubborn. You mustn’t forget that. Whenever the days seem to stretch for too long, remember the fire in his eyes. He will return to us.”

The queen makes a soft noise that Oito cannot quite place. “You’re right. Of course you are. How foolish of me to give in to worry when I should have faith in the ones I love.” She forces a smile and turns to face her company proper. Takes both of Oito’s hands in hers. “You are a wise woman, Oito-san. Kurapika could not have picked a finer bride. May your confidence inspire strength in us all.”

“Mito-san...” Oito picks her words carefully, like ripe fruit from a garden. Too much pressure and they might burst in her hands. “Do you know why Kurapika’s choice fell on me?”

“He did not say much about it, but he is not the type to carry his heart on his tongue either. I know he values your opinion just as much as mine and watching him play with your daughter - he is already half a father to her. And given the history you share, it should not have surprised me.”

“I am very grateful for what he did for Woble and me. He saved us from certain death, or worse, by the hands of the Nohrian army. But I think there is something you should know about his proposal. See, I did not long to marry again and I told Kurapika as much. But I could not turn him down after he explained himself to me. He implored me not to share this with anyone, especially not you, but in the light of recent events...”

“I’m not sure I can follow you.”

“He promised me that he would never touch me. He promised to honor me and care for Woble as if she were his own but he could not share my bed. Said that I was free to take any lover I desired so long as I was discreet. Kurapika... holds you in very high regards. I’m sure that when you asked him to find a bride, you only wished to add happiness to his life, but I fear... that he will not find it with a woman.”

Mito grows still. Her grasp grows weaker until she releases Oito’s hands. The queen stands, abruptly.

“That’s... no. Impossible. He would have told me-”

“Would he? Forgive me for speaking so boldly, Mito-san, but he feared to disappoint you. That he had failed you somehow by not being able to settle into the life you had imagined for him. And I don’t think he was aware that he had a choice in that matter and that it might prove as simple as asking you.” Oito closes her eyes for a moment. Some of this was based on assumptions, observations she had made once he started looking after her and Woble in the palace. Something that is revealed in the things he does not say, the places where his gaze does not linger. There is a quality to Kurapika’s reservations that reminds her of herself. The need to always keep a part of oneself reigned in.

Mito’s shoulders rise and fall, rise and fall as she breathes in too deeply, too rapidly. “But the new law...”

Yes. What a tragedy it has been. A week before the peace talks began, Kurapika made their betrothal official. And when Gon came back, head spinning with half formed ideas that hid very poorly just how smitten he was with the Nohrian prince, Kurapika started shutting himself off.

“You must fight for it,” Oito insists. “For Kurapika. The arrangement between me and your son is a rational one. It was meant to be convenient at best, but now... now I fear it may become a shackle. Please. Once he returns, you must talk to him. Tell him that he is still free to make a different choice.”

“You’d break off your engagement with him? Despite the ridicule you might face for it?” The queen all but begs. It is a miracle that Mito does not sink to her knees the very moment. Oh, how painful and beautiful to behold how much this woman loved her son. And to know that he loved her just as ardently, so much that he was willing to make himself suffer just to please her. And yet neither of them could show it in a way that the other understood.

“I have faced plenty of ridicule in my life. A little more will not hurt me. And it’s a price I’ll gladly pay if I can bring the smile back to your face.”

“To my face?”, the queen repeats. Her hand flies to her cheek as if she was surprised that her features were worthy of attention.

“Well, Kurapika rarely smiles. I am a woman, not a miracle worker.”


	4. Breaking Free

“You look weary,” Kurapika says, by way of greeting, not sparing Leorio the kindness of ignoring it.

“Well, you know how it is. A butler’s life is tough. And busy.”

“Is that so?” Kurapika lets his eyes trail over Leorio’s entire form, as if to memorize his stride, his poise (or lack thereof), the pleasing design of his face. Perhaps he spares a bit too much attention to the full swing of his lips and the angles of his jaw, but Kurapika is looking for an answer.

“I apologize for my recent absence,” Leorio says, “I hope you’ve been treated well.”

“Well, it’s been a bit dull without your blundering, but I have received my shares of milk-free porridge and I have not been mistreated. I hope the same is true for you.”

The butler showed no signs of limping or injury, no bruises where Kurapika could see - but almost a week has passed since they last saw each other, and he may have been healed to hide the abuse. And there are other ways of inflicting harm that do not target the body at all. It is rumored that the Nohrians use dark magic to conduct their interrogations, although none of their captured soldiers had ever returned to tell the tale.

But Leorio seems... changed. Quiet, which is not like him at all. Absent although he is so near. He sets down the tray which holds two simple loafs of dark bread, pulled turkey meat and a few soft pears. Accompanied by a cup of spiced tea that smelled enticingly like burnt caramel, cinnamon and clove.

“Leorio.”

“Hm?”

“They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

“No.” His eyes do not meet Kurapika’s. “My liege would never treat me unjust. Despite my... recent shortcomings I was allowed to come here one more time, so I may say my goodbyes. I am to serve at a different palace soon, so I fear-”

“How soon?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning before dawn.” Leorio closes his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath. “I wish you well, Kurapika. And I hope that one day, perhaps, when the war is over... that we may meet again, under kinder circumstances. Not as enemies, but as friends.”

“You were never my enemy, Leorio,” Kurapika whispers. “And I will not forget what you have done for me and Senritsu.” He scoots closer, and pulls a tissue from his sleeve - washed and neatly folded, albeit not as pristine as when he had received it. “I guess it is time to return this, then.”

But Leorio shakes his head. He reaches out and gently curls Kurapika’s fingers around the fabric. A soft smile brings forth some of the Leorio that Kurapika likes to remember. It makes him think of warm, lingering embraces, even if they have not shared any of those and never will.

“Keep it,” Leorio says. “I won’t need it where I go.”

“Then allow me to give you something else.”

“Kurapika, you have so little, it wouldn’t feel right to take from you.”

But Kurapika insists. “It’s nothing I will miss. But you must close your eyes.”

Leorio obliges. He sits so very still - brows furrowing in confusion. Kurapika leans over, careful not to touch or brush against Leorio’s shoulders, so as not to give himself away. He places a single kiss on the high arch of Leorio’s cheekbone.

Leorio gasps - a noise so quiet Kurapika might have missed it, if they weren’t so close.

“Kurapika, I-”

“Goodbye, Leorio,” Kurapika says, and his words leave no room for disagreement. “May our paths cross again.”

“Right.” The butler clears his throat. Runs his palms across his legs before he rises and looks down upon Kurapika one more time. He opens his mouth, but his tongue does not move. Instead, Leorio combs a hand through his hair and finally finds the strength to turn and leave, all but fleeing the cell with large strides.

Then Kurapika waits for the guard to appear, to close up his cell. He takes a sip from his sweet tea, watching the guard from the corner of his vision. Once the man leaves and the echoing sound of his footsteps fades, Kurapika breaks his first loaf of bread. He digs his fingers onto the soft filling until they brush against hard metal.

_ Tonight _ , he thinks.

 

 

“You want me to do  _ what? _ ”

“The kitchen pantry hasn’t been properly cleaned out for a month now,” Canary says, “and since you spent the last weeks giving the kitchen staff additional errands, I think it’s only fair if you do something for them in return.”

“And normally I wouldn’t argue with that, but unfortunately, I am leaving tomorrow. Couldn’t you have come up with this, say, before sunset?”, Leorio bargains, and rubs his wrist.

“I wanted to give you time to pack. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure that your belongings will be brought to the stables, so you can depart once you are done with this task. There will be plenty of time for you to sleep once you’re in Macarath.”

“But-”

Canary lowers her voice to a threatening hiss. “One last task. Is that really so much to ask, Leorio? Haven’t you played the rebel enough?”

“Alright, alright, I’ll do it,” Leorio grumbles, peering into the pantry. He hasn’t taken a single step in, and already the scent of mold wafts into his nose. Great. He will have to remove all the food, toss out whatever overgrown nightmares lurk in the darkest corners, and then set about cleaning the shelves and mopping the floor. This could easily take him all night.

But Canary seems mollified. “Perfect. If it’s any consolation, I will tell Lady Alluka that you volunteered for this. It hardly makes up for the worry you caused her, but it’s a start. I’ll fetch you in the morning.”

Leorio makes a half-hearted noise of agreement and gets to work.

 

By midnight, he has managed to toss out all the rotten goods and store away the safe food in crates. With a sense of accomplishment he ventures into the room again, ready to begin with the actual cleaning. Canary had been kind enough to provide a bucket of water for him before she left for the night.

He takes up a rag and starts scrubbing.

Already Leorio’s cheeks are flushed from the exercise, although one spot on his left cheek burns hotter than the others. When he closes his eyes, he still feels the coarseness of Kurapika’s lips on his skin. The kiss was... unexpected. Leorio doesn’t quite know what to make of it. He is not very familiar with Hoshidan customs, but he has always believed them to be stiff and repressed. A kiss seems like an unforgivable breach of etiquette. Well. Not like it matters, now that he is about to leave this place.

He still wants to go back and find out. But the guards have been ordered to let him pass no longer. And he already said goodbye. Maybe it’s for the best. Because the more he keeps thinking back, the more he finds himself wanting things he cannot have.

When the alarm bells start sounding, Leorio is torn out of his brooding. His head whips up, as if he could find the source just from looking about the room. But as the kitchen looks unchanged, he starts to run - he needs to find Lady Alluka. Needs to make sure that she’s safe. Except. It’s not until Leorio sets foot into the stone hallway that he remembers that he is no longer welcome around his liege.

Now someone else will wake her and hurriedly put a traveling dress on her, should there be need of evacuation. Assuming she isn’t still awake after her bimonthly incantations. She will be fine, he’s sure of it - he just somehow had to deal with the fact that this had nothing to do with him anymore.

Footsteps approach.

A group of dark mages rushes by, blue tomes stuffed under their arms. Leorio spots Baise among them and waves to get her attention. She shoves herself to the edge of the formation, slowing down just a little.

“Are we under attack?” Leorio asks once she’s at his level.

“Fire in the guards’ quarters. Stay here, we should have this under control.”

“Be careful.”

“I always am,” Baise retorts and tips an imaginary hat at him. “See you later, kitten.”

“Wait-” But she is already out of sight. “ _ Fuck. _ ” He runs a hand across his face. He hasn’t told her about his relocation - why did he forget? Sure, they haven’t sought each other out lately, but...

Another set of footsteps. A lone straggler draws near, keeping his head low and his shoulders drawn. His face is obscured by the shadows of his hooded scarlet cape, which strikes Leorio as strange. Mages wear circlets, not hoods. And the tome he presses against his chest is red - a fire spell.

They don’t fight fire with fire in this castle.

“And where are you going, boy?”, Leorio calls.

The mage makes a sharp turn towards the kitchen and without a single word of explanation, takes Leorio by the wrist and tags him along. “O-kay. Do you need my help with something, or...?” Leorio lets himself be pulled along, right into the pantry that he spent so long cleaning. The mage closes the door behind them.

“Um.” It’s not that Leorio minds being alone with a handsome dark mage, although personally he would have picked a nicer location. And a better time. “Look, I’m not sure what the others may have told you about me, but I usually prefer to be introduced to someone before secretly making out in dark hiding spots, because I’m a man of standards.”

“Oh are you?”, the mage asks, his tone and snide so painfully familiar that Leorio hold his breath.  _ Impossible. _ He must be imagining-

But then the mage turns and pulls back his hood. “We don’t have much time,” Kurapika says, his accent now prominent. “But it’s important that you trust me.”

Leorio’s head is swarmed with questions, but the one that topples on his tongue is: “Who gave you that outfit?”

Some cruel goddess of fate, it seems.

Suppose he’s always had a weakness for dark mages. Who could blame him? The men’s uniform is barely less revealing than its female counterpart, with a v-neck cut so deep that it went below the navel, ending right above the belt. As if the design invites the observer to let their eyes trail lower and lower. And the all sheer top leaves little to the imagination: Kurapika’s nipples are covered only by bejeweled straps of fabric that span from the collar of the cape all around to the back. Heavy golden bracelets circle around his sleeves, highlighting the shape of his wiry muscles, matching the gold of his hair.

Mercifully, the pants are not see-through, with the exception of the diamond shaped cut-outs above the knees and at the hollow of the knees. Whoever designed this outfit was a pervert with very specific tastes.

Dark mage’s outfits are specifically tailored to the wearer, so whoever donated this piece must be of a similar height and build as Kurapika: the fabric strains tight against his skin. The effect is dizzying: Kurapika is a sinful dream in black and scarlet and gold, the kind that Leorio would not mind to be haunted by.

He swallows hard.

The Hoshidan is either oblivious or indifferent to the hungry stare he attracts. “Does it matter where I got it from? Soon someone will notice that I am gone and then they will come for you too. We must leave now. There’s a secret passageway from the castle to a town below. I have a vague idea where to find it, but you know the castle better than I do. Can you take me there?”

“I’d take you anywhere in that outfit,” Leorio says before he can stop himself.

Kurapika whacks his heavy tome against Leorio’s arm and hisses angrily. “Now is not the time for flirting!”

Leorio has to admit that that’s fair. “I can lead the way, but we need to make a quick trip to the stables. My stuff- And Senritsu! We need to get Senritsu!”

But Kurapika shakes his head. “She will not be left behind, don’t worry, although we have to leave the castle on a different route. And your belongings have been taken care of by my allies.”

“So you’re saying I have to join you no matter what.”

“You’re free to choose your own path once we’re out of the capital, if you wish. I will not stop you. But I think you might want to meet someone first.”

 

The castle owns a network of secret passageways and shortcuts, known only to servants and members of the royal family, but they are so narrow that only one person can squeeze through at a time. 

Leorio takes Kurapika’s hand to make sure they won’t lose each other, plucks a torch from the wall, and goes right ahead, following one wild turn after the other.

“There shouldn’t be too many other servants afoot at this hour, but with the fire alarm going off you never know. So if we run into someone, say as little as possible. Try to act coy, as if we’re just a couple looking for some... privacy. People are willing to look the other way for that.”

“Is this a common occurrence?”, Kurapika inquires.

“Well, usually people prefer to retreat to their own quarters for that, assuming they’re privileged enough to have quarters. New recruits are roomed together in a larger dorm and they have very strict rules against nightly visits. So yeah, you kinda run into desperate couples a lot around these parts.”

“And no one will take offense at this? Not even... not even if it’s two men?”

Leorio snorts and bites the inside of his lip. “That’ll just make it twice as likely that folks will look away, but it’s not like it’s unheard of. Frowned at, maybe. But this place thrives on gossip. Nothing stays secret for long and that means if you don’t want people to know who you take to bed, you better stay celibate.”

“That’s preposterous,” Kurapika whispers. “Why do they care?”

Leorio shrugs. “It is what it is. Personally, I stopped minding a long time ago. Careful now, don’t bump your head.” Leorio stoops low at a narrow threshold that leads to a set of stairs spiraling down. “This should be the one.”

A breeze drifts up from the darkness below, carrying the scent of old fish mingled with far worse things. “You might want to breathe through your mouth for a while.” Luckily, because of the stink, most people assume that the stairs lead to a garbage disposal. And while they are not entirely wrong, another hallway lies beyond the garbage.

“Just a little bit further now...”

And they spill onto a crowded street.

The rings of castle Krakenburg dig deep into the heart of the capital, but even deeper lies a system of canals that carry the waste of Windmire away. And upon those canals, up-stream, the walled city was built by the poor of the nation, unfortunate souls who came to the capital to seek a fortune and lost everything. They mingled with refugees from both Nohr and Hoshido, accepting everyone who wanted to be part of their community, and lived free of masters or taxes.

Slowly, Kurapika disentangles his fingers from Leorio’s and takes a few steps ahead, scanning the area.

“So, who are we looking for?”, Leorio asks as casually as he can manage. “What does your contact look like?”

“Tall. Black hair, blue eyes. That’s all I know. I was told to watch out for the blue cape of an outlaw, but there seem so many of them afoot.” A garb of a deep blue would be hard to miss among all the shades of the harvest that the villagers wear - ruddy brown, warm orange, pale onion yellow.

“They bring in game, knowing they can sell it here without a merchant’s license and without having to worry about taxes. I wouldn’t suggest buying anything, though, unless you know your meat.”

Kurapika hums in agreement. “Wasn’t planning to.”

They stroll to the nearest market booth, which is brimming with spices. Their sweet and sharp notes chase some of the rotten stink away that still lingers in Leorio’s mind, threatening to make him gag. Then, a shriek. Leorio only spies a dark blur in the corner of his eye before a figure tackles into him and he is trapped in a fierce hug.

“M-milady?”, Leorio squeaks. And sure enough, it’s the princess’ water blue eyes that look up at him.

“Thank the gods you’re alright!”, Alluka says, pressing her cheek against Leorio’s chest. “I’ve been waiting here for so long, I was worried Kurapika hadn’t found you.”

Her black hair is tied in a simple braid, no ribbons to adorn her, no gemstone studs glistening in her earlobes. She is dressed like an outlaw, alright. Soft, practical leather boots, black striped stockings, a grey-and-blue day dress with long black sleeves. A chiming golden-plated belt spans around her hips, from which a chatelaine hangs. Her blue cape obscures a leather quiver and she carries an iron-enforced bow - sturdy, not too heavy, a perfect weapon for hunting.

But the princess is not going hunting, is she?

“Where is Canary?” Kurapika asks, showing a shocking lack of respect in the presence of the princess. No bow, no formal address - Leorio elbows him and receives a dirty look in return.

Alluka does not appear to notice. “She requested to stay at the castle. Said now that Leorio is going to come with us, her presence was no longer essential and it’s not too bad if we still have eyes at the court. The good news is, I found someone here who will get us horses.”

“Good,” Kurapika says. “I’d like to spend as little time in the capital as necessary.”

Alluka nods.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking”, Leorio interrupts, “where exactly are we headed?”

“For now,” she begins, lowering her voice to a whisper, “our goal is to reach the Woods of the Forlorn.”

“No.” The word is out of his mouth before Leorio can remember to soften it. “My Lady, this place is _ far _ too dangerous. It’s crawling with Faceless-”

“It shouldn’t be,” Alluka protests. “We’re not at war right now, so their population hasn’t been replenished. I wager there are far more of their kind still stumbling around near the border. And we can reach the place until dawn. Once inside, we can move there unseen, even from above. And even if someone decided to search for us there, the terrain is only manageable for a small group of travelers, not a whole regiment. It’s our best shot.”

Leorio opens his mouth, then closes it again. He doesn’t like the idea of the princess getting herself in danger, but whoever concocted this plan put some decent reasoning into it.

Kurapika places his hand on Leorio’s forearm. “May I suggest you save your questions for the road? The more miles we put between us and the palace now, the harder it will be to track us.”

Leorio puts on a gruff face, but he can’t argue with that. “Fine. But I want to know every detail.”

 

 

In the fourth week after Kurapika’s departure, Queen Mito falls ill. She refuses to eat, can barely summon the energy to leave her bed. She finds little rest in sleep although she complains about exhaustion. Physicians and apothecaries wander into her quarters, each more clueless than the other as they provide different treatments. Bloodletting. Acupuncture. Tonics to replenish her strength that have to be rubbed on her chest twice a day.

The Queen endures all her treatments stoically, but when she grows paler and paler, Oito chases all the doctors and quacksalvers out of the palace. Gon calls for Pairo, who lights up incense and chants incantations, but he finds no traces of a curse or corruption.

“I still suspect the issue is spiritual in nature,” he explains to Gon and Oito, “but it’s nothing that has been inflicted on her from the outside. I’m afraid that she is merely... suffering. A change of scene might help. Perhaps a short vacation away from the council’s constant drivel and complaints.”

“That sounds just about right,” Oito says. “I could take her to the mountains - the fresh air might restore her appetite. A hot spring inn strikes me as a good solution - a warm bath now and then soothes the nerves as well as the muscles, but most importantly, we must take all the responsibility off her shoulders for a while. I believe... I believe what she truly needs is for Kurapika to return but until then, we can only alleviate the stress. Gon, will you hold her place in the council for a little longer? I know you hate these meetings, but-”

“I want to come with you.” Gon says. Although a young man of twenty years, he still wears his solemnity like a child. “But that’s not going to help her, is it?”

“I’m afraid not, my dear,” Oito says softly. She beckons the prince to come closer, and reaches up to pet his hair. Noble or not, twenty or not, a boy is still a boy. And this boy is in need of comfort. “You’re the only one who can do this for her. I would gladly trade with you, but I am not a Hoshidan. I can only do so much for her. But I promise, I will take good care of the queen. And you - you need to be here when Kurapika arrives with Prince Killua, isn’t that so?”

Gon nods, slowly. “For the wedding.”

Pairo shuffles his feet with impatience as if to say that he has heard enough of this wedding to last him a lifetime. They all had. Yet they are still no closer to the event taking place.

There is so much advice that lies heavy on Oito’s tongue. She was a king’s bride once. She knows what it’s like to marry out of duty. She knows that contentment can be found, even in a union that was not forged by love. Joy, even. But she is merely a guest in this household. And this is the kind of talk a mother is meant to give.

Then again, the only mother that Gon had ever known was unwed. And with Mito being consumed by her grief and Kurapika missing, who was left to guide the young prince? Just a refugee queen and a sharp-tongued priest. Standing against a council that was just waiting to tear his aspirations apart.

“Gon, about the wedding-”

He perks his head up. “Yes?”

“You don’t have to charge right into this, you know. You have the right to ease yourself into marriage. Take the time to get to know the man that will be your husband, to learn his ways. Your marriage will be happier for it.”

“But Hoshido-”

“Hoshido will not fall in just one day. Or two, or three.”

Pairo clears his throat. “I would like to say that selfishness is never a good look on a king. However... Oito-sama is right. Hoshido will not suffer if you allow yourself to enjoy your engagement a little longer. You have barely spent time with the Nohrian prince outside of battlefield negotiations and peace talks.”

“I spent time with him!”, Gon protests. “We met on the battlefield many times! I know how he fights, I know the power of his magic. I wouldn’t have asked him to elope if I wasn’t sure he would make a good husband.”

“Ah.” Pairo clucks his tongue, no doubt marveling at the prince’s idea of what a good husband should entail. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were not serious about this, my lord. Not at all. I would just like to point out that the official announcement of your betrothal should suffice to keep the Nohrian’s from invading our borders. King Silva will not march against his dearest son. The time between engagement and marriage is a beautiful one. Carefree. Meant for exploration. You needn’t miss it.”

“I see...”, Gon says slowly, his brows furrowed in almost comical confusion. He didn’t see at all.

“It’s a time for fooling around, is what I am saying,” Pairo adds.

Gon’s brows do not un-furrow. “As in... sparring?”

“Yes,” Pairo snorts. “ _ Sparring _ .”

Oito decides that it is time for a change of topic. Not because she grows shy, but because she considers it rude to tease Gon for not knowing something he has apparently not experienced before. Something that no one would have addressed in front of the prince. The Hoshidans are a people who pride themselves on their self-restraint.  _ Pleasure _ is not a thing thing to be chased in a marriage. Even those who pay to taste a woman’s embrace are clever enough not to boast about it.

“I’m sure that once your fiancé arrives, there will be no small amount of things to occupy your time with. But please, should we not have returned upon his or Kurapika’s arrival, send a messenger immediately.”

“Of course.”

“And I shall write you every second day, so you can be with us in spirit, at least.”

“Thank you. I’ll pray for a safe journey and a timely reunion.”

Oito lowers her head demurely in a gesture that is not quite a bow. “May you fare well,” she mutters and takes her goodbyes. She has a journey to prepare for.

 

 

They take the carriage into the mountains, drawn by two gray mares that easily blend in with the rocky area. The horses are terrifying creatures, so quick that the landscape blurs past them. Every time Oito looks at them, she is reminded of the day she tried to ride on a pegasus, and her stomach drops. She did not trust them, and they could smell it on her. Where is the gain in taming a beast that can - and will - bite your fingers clean off?

She makes a wayward remark about this to the queen, who does not stir, nor offer a response. For the duration of their travel, Mito could not be coerced to speak more than a few morsels.

Oito watches her, unashamed. Keeps searching the other woman’s face for a hint of compassion - but Mito’s features remain blank, and her once gentle eyes are dull. Perhaps Oito has underestimated what a strenuous feat it would be to restore the smile to the Queen’s face, but now that she has decided on this path, she will not waver from it.

“This will pass,” she says, for her own sake as well as for her companion’s. If she just speaks the words often enough, she will surely compel it. “I know it may not feel like this right now, but you must believe me.”

“No one can even tell me what this is,” Mito says. Her voice cracks from lack of use.

“It’s a poison of the mind,” Oito says, just loud enough to be heard over the noise of the wheels rumbling over the rocky street. “A great numbness that washes away everything. Like a chasm that drains you more and more. Your strength. Your joy. Leaving only frustration and anger and guilt. Does that sound about right?”

Slowly, like the beacon of a lighthouse, Mito’s gaze focuses on Oito.

“The guilt is the most treacherous part, because it will tell you that you deserve this. Do not listen to that voice. Not ever.”

“You have been through this as well,” the Queen says. Her voice remains flat, unmoved.

Oito tilts her head. She runs her hand through her hair and lets it all fall over her shoulder, almost sheepishly. She has not breathed a word of this to anyone, scared that she would seem cruel and indifferent. There has been no one to talk to either. “After Woble was born, I was too weak to leave the bed. I was feverish and in pain, and they would not let me see my daughter for more than half an hour, afraid that she’d grow sick as well. I tried to feed her, but no milk would come. By the time my body grew stronger... it felt different. I guess I was lucky not to suffer as much as you do now. After a week, I could leave the bed. Another week and I could take walks across the palace garden without growing winded. I tended to my duties as a queen and as a mother, but I felt nothing. The days bled into one. I didn’t feel bad, but I couldn’t enjoy anything either. All meals tasted the same. I did not share my husband’s bed no matter how much he mocked me, for I could not endure his hands on me. Not even when I tended to Woble-” She cuts herself off and turns her gaze outward, to the mountainside where the bleak rock path is interrupted by bushels of vegetation. Shocks of green against the gray. “I thought that the fault was mine - that if I had not let the nurses take her from me, I would not be so indifferent. I did not notice that I was sick. Not until years later, when I visited my old nursemaid and she brought up something just like it. They called it the childbirth vapors.”

Oito took a deep breath. “I was lucky. It passed on its own, after a few months. It still robbed me of enjoying those early months with my daughter and I make sure to love her twice as fiercely now.” She falls silent, counting the seconds. Waits for judgment to be cast upon her, but Mito says nothing, does nothing but lean a little heavier against Oito. The sensation of the Queen’s arm against hers catches her by surprise and for a moment, Oito cannot breathe. How long has it been since she was this close to another woman?

When she speaks again, her voice has grown coarse and she needs to clear her throat: “I know you are strong, Mito-san. I know you can hold on long enough to outlast it, because you have something that I did not. You have people who love you. And I promise I will not leave your side until you find your strength again. I will be with you, every step of the way.”

“Why?

“Well-” Oito says and cuts herself off. Why indeed? She has not bothered much to examine the root of her need to help the other woman, because she didn’t have to. To act upon one’s whims without having to justify everything to a third party is no doubt the greatest perk of being insignificant. “We are friends, are we not? Is it not normal to wish the best for a friend?”

“I wonder,” Mito replies and falls silent again.


	5. The Woods of the Forlorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, no one but eddy told me about the chunk of text that was missing in chapter 1. Y'all just let me embarrass myself like that, huh? I fixed it now but *please* if you see mistakes, tell me.

**Part II: On the Road**  

_You spoke my language and touched my limbs_  
_It wasn't difficult to pull me from myself again_  
_And in our travels we found our roads  
_ _You held it like a mirror, showing me the life I chose_

 Sea Wolf, "Dear Fellow Traveler"

* * *

 

  **5 - The Woods of the Forlorn**

 

They ride like all the demons of hell are on their trail, the princess taking the lead and Leorio following close. He is aware of how Alluka’s eyes keep searching the purple sky, how her shoulders are drawn up close to her ears. They are fleeing not from an army of demons, but a single one.

Leorio knows the demon’s face too well. He prays, for his princess’ sake and for his own, that they never have to see it again.

Only one road leads to the Woods of the Forlorn, and if they are spotted now… Leorio’s grip tightens around the reins.

Behind him, Kurapika speaks up. While his voice does not carry over the whipping winds that howl around their ears, his tone is soft, reassuring. He draws back one hand from Leorio’s waist to pat the man’s knee. Quickly, not lingering. Leorio throws his head back and yells at Kurapika to not let go, dammit. At the speed they keep, a fall might break some bones, even snap the neck. Surely, it can’t be that different from riding a bird in the sky. Except...

Leorio thinks of Senritsu, the span of her wings, her eyes like black pearls. Beautiful, loyal Senritsu singing a song of mourning after they took Kurapika from her. Maybe Kurapika is unafraid of falling because there was always someone to catch him if he did. Too bad that horses are fucking cowards, prey animals whose sole survival tactic is based on anxiety. They could be spooked at the slightest movement. Considering the place they are headed to, Leorio feels a strange sort of kinship with these animals.

They reach the Woods of the Forlorn a few hours before nightfall, a small blessing after the chaos of the previous night. And it’s a relief to finally dismount, although Leorio’s body instantly offers a chorus of complaints. His knees pop as he straightens them to reach the solid ground underneath, and he whines loudly about the soreness of his thighs and ass.

“How dignified,” Kurapika quips, but winces when he throws his leg over the saddle blanket.

“Will you need help getting off?”, Leorio asks, ignoring the new bruise of his ego.

“I think I’ll manage on my own, thank you.” Kurapika gauges the distance between his feet and the ground as if intent to leap right off the horse’s back. Suddenly, he does not look so self-assured.

“Oh I’m sure you can do it on your own, but I hear it’s more rewarding with a companion.”

Kurapika frowns. He clucks his tongue and says, slowly. “So you hear, huh. I guess that means you have not made any experiences of your own on the matter then.”

Leorio couldn’t tell if he liked this new, feistier side of Kurapika better, but he could easily picture him on the battlefield now - trading blows physical and verbal, aggravating his opponent to grow careless and show an opening in his defense.

“I wouldn’t say that. But I’m usually the one providing a helping hand, not the one who needs it.”

“Well, if you are that eager to please, I suggest to lend your helping hands to the person you are meant to serve, as she appears to need them.”

Leorio whips his head around and spots Princess Alluka, one foot in the stirrups, the other still half stretched upon the horses back - unable to move because her new chatelaine has caught around the pommel. He dashes over to free her from the predicament, still feeling Kurapika’s gaze upon his back, heavy with judgment.

Kurapika holds onto the pommel and pulls himself forward, watching Alluka dismount and learning from it. He moves very slowly, so as not to spook the terrifying beast underneath him - he doesn’t trust horses, and the horse, he assumes, can feel this animosity. There are few horses in Hoshido, most of them belonging to the palace and they are of a stockier breed than their long-legged Nohrian cousins.

Everything is a little more terrifying and crooked in Nohr, and Kurapika wonders if the fact can be blamed on a life with so little sun - even now, past the high walls of Windmire, the land is covered in dusk twilight, the sky a blend of purple to pink, to an orange-golden horizon. It’s beautiful, in a way. But the grass has darker blades, the trees stretch too high, too thin. Twisting around themselves, with thick green-ish roots that travel far along the surface.

He supposes that it’s beautiful in its own nightmarish way, but he couldn’t picture himself living in this country. Worst of all are the places that seem to be haunted with a condensed kind of darkness. Like these woods. Although the canopy of the trees is high enough to house giants, the shadows beneath grow pitch back, swallowing what little light the day provides.

Kurapika assumes that light is not the only thing it swallows; it feels like he’s staring into the maw of a sleeping monster. He begins to understand Leorio’s hesitation to come here.

Leorio ambles back to their horse and takes it by the reins. “We’re going to have to walk from here on,” he says, then catches the way that Kurapika is staring and follows his gaze. “Have you been to these parts before?”

“No. I never went very far past the border. Have you?”

“A few times. The... the Nohrian troops led us through here, when they took us to the castle for the first time. It was the cruelest thing they could have done. This place ain’t right and I don’t even mean the Faceless crawling about. It makes you hear voices. You begin to see things... strange lights and people... people that are long gone and dead. Calling for you. And all of us Ice Tribe kids, we had lost a lot of loved ones to the Great Plague.”

“I’m sorry,” Kurapika says because he doesn’t know what else to say. But Leorio shakes his head.

“Whatever you do, don’t look at the water and don’t stray too far from us. The princess should be fine and I know what to expect by now, but you- I didn’t forget what you said about your parents. And I reckon you must’ve seen horrible things in this war. If it gets bad... I should have something in my satchel to help you sleep. We can put you on horseback until we’re in the clear.”

Kurapika swallows. He thinks of his mother, of his father. Remembers the stench of burning skin and singed hair. He has lived through these memories so many times, he can handle one more. “Thank you, but I don’t think it will be necessary.”

“Just wanted to make sure you know the option is there.”

“I appreciate it,” Kurapika says and strides right ahead. Better to get it over and done with. To focus on the road ahead - not on the past, not on the way Leorio’s eyes grow soft with concern. He minds his steps.

 

A few miles in, the ground grows soft, wet, shifting from a marsh to a proper swamp. The cobblestone paths they tread upon rise up to form bridges across the water. Roots wrap around the structures, so the travelers keep their eyes fixed to the ground. Water to their left, water to their right - Kurapika strains to not glance at it, not even by accident. Not that he could see very far - Alluka clutches a healing staff to her chest, whose soft glow is their only source of light.

Leorio is right by her side, where he belongs. He keeps glancing back whenever a kind of fear sneaks upon him, only to find Kurapika a few feet behind them, huffing with discomfort and tugging at his impractical clothes. Cranky and alive, the best way he could be.

“Leorio?”, Alluka pipes up.

“Yes, my lady?”

“I... owe you an apology. About the way I treated you back at the castle. I drugged you and I caused you pain - I feel wretched just thinking about it. You’ve never been anything but kind to me and how do I repay you? I’m no better than Illumi.”

“Don’t say that,” Leorio replies softly. “You’re nothing like this monster. And you had reason to believe that I was a traitor, so naturally, you had to make sure I was telling you the truth. It was the logical thing to do.” But despite his words, unease trickles through his veins. He can still feel where the needle went through his skin, a phantom pain, a horrible itch in his mind. At least they have not lost each other over this. He will gladly forgive her means of securing the truth if she can forgive how he neglected her.

“But I never believed it. I refused to.” Alluka shakes her head. “Killua said that I was being too naive. Because Illumi, he can make people do his bidding, even if they don’t want to. I… haven’t forgotten how that feels like. I was so scared. Scared that Killua might be right, scared of the answers you might give me. And then it turned out that you just kept seeing Kurapika because you cared for him and I felt more miserable still. I should have stood up to my brother for you.” Her mouth quivers and Leorio stops to put his fingers to her cheek.

“Hey now, please don’t cry. I know how vulnerable your position at court is. You were forced to make a choice and you hated it. Because you are gentle and sweet. You are nothing like that hollow-eyed-” He stops his tongue before his anger runs away with him. For better or worse, Prince Illumi is still her brother. “I was scared too. Scared that I had failed you. That I had pushed you to this. I hate seeing you so torn, so please, don’t fret anymore over this. Let’s forgive one another and try to do better in the future. Alright?”

Alluka nods. Then, without warning, she throws her arms fiercely around his chest. “Ouf,” Leorio says, half in jest as he sways a little. But he braces her weight and returns the embrace. He kisses her on her midnight hair. His Lady. His girl.

“Now that we’re being so honest with each other - won’t you tell me where it is we are headed?”

He will follow her anywhere, anywhere at all, but he likes to know the roads they might take, wants to make an educated guess at the hardships they will have to endure on the way there. After all, Alluka has never been taught how to consider the little things that go into planning a journey - how much to pack, where to stop for supplies and bedding - the kind of decisions that would grant her independence. Leorio trusts that Canary has put a lot of thought into filling their satchels, but he has to take it from here. He must provide guidance, and in order to do that, he needs to know where they will go.

“Cheve,” the princess whispers. “And then we’ll aim for the ports of Dia, to find a ship that will carry us across the sea, to Hoshido.”

“Hoshido? My lady, with the current tension between our countries, is that wise? What about Izumo? It is neutral terrain, they will turn a blind eye to the country we hail from-”

“The High Prince himself has promised us protection and a safe passage once we cross the border. Leorio... they are willing to take us in, if we help them end the war. Killua is already heading there, to forge a new alliance.”

“But isn’t Cheve a step in the wrong direction? The time it will take us to get there would be better spent heading to Dia at once. We’d save two days of travel, at least.”

“But my brother will stop in Cheve! There is a small resistance force there waiting for him, to join his flight towards the border-”

“And will he wait for us there?”

The princess deflates. “No. But he promised to leave a message for us, if we came by.”

“ _If_?”, Leorio repeats.

She worries her lip and stares blankly ahead. “He... he said to seek aid in Cheve, if we were being pursued. If it came to a fight. And I know we’re clear so far, but it’s our only sure way to get word of him. Please, I know it’s far. but-”

“Look, for all of your brother’s many, many, _many_ faults,” Leorio says, “he does know when a risk is worth taking. This. This isn’t worth it. What if he had to change plans, take a different route so that he never made it to Cheve after all? Then we reach the town and there is no word from him and all we managed was to waste time and you’ll be upset and worried - have faith Milady. Please.”

Her darling little face clouds over and she juts out her lip. Leorio knows this expression too well. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“My brother... he promised the High Prince of Hoshido to marry him.”

“He WHAT?” Leorio’s voice carries far across the murky swamp waters and he stops and grabs Alluka by the shoulders, spins her around until she’s facing him. “When? How? What the hell was he thinking?”

“I think you will find,” Kurapika pipes up and Leorio flinches, “that marriage has always been a viable tool to join alliances.”

“Yeah, well, not between our countries,” Leorio says defensively, glad for the darkness pressing in on them that would hide his embarrassed face. (It’s not like he forgot about Kurapika. He just didn’t expect him to be so close behind.)

“Kikyou is a snake, whose greed for power is only matched by her husband’s.” Kurapika’s words grow sharp and bitter and Leorio can’t help wondering why. Sure, the woman is a traitor who chose the opportunity of a throne over her country, but she and Silva were wed the year in which Leorio was born. Leorio estimates Kurapika to be younger than himself, yet he speaks with the scorn of someone who has suffered a personal insult. “But a union that strives for peace - it’s a powerful gesture and you would do well to respect it.”

Leorio scoffs. Oh, the gesture he can respect. He just finds it hard to believe that Prince Killua has made a decision that will ultimately benefit a lot of people - and none of them him.

“I wasn’t aware that Hoshidan laws allowed for two men to be wed,” he says instead.

It’s a mistake. Leorio realizes the second that Kurapika steps into the faint circle of the staff’s glow, his face a drawn mask. Anger roughens his voice as he replies: “Things change. Our princes’ decision will bring progress in more than one way.”

“Right. Well, that’s. Great. I was just… surprised.” _Shit._ He’s an idiot and he’s making it worse with every word.

“Kurapika?”, Alluka asks and her voice cracks a little. “If my brother doesn’t make it to Hoshido alive, will I be expected to take his place?” Her staff flickers and she holds onto it tighter.

Kurapika squints against the light. Now that he is close, Leorio how much his chest heaves when he talks, and how his breath whistles. They have not walked for very long and yet he seems to have no stamina left. Perhaps a result of the month in captivity, where he had little to no physical activity. Not to mention the fever that must have left him weak and drained. At least, Leorio hopes that’s all it is.

“Well, I can’t say for sure, but it’s likely that the High Prince might offer you his hand in marriage, in your brother’s stead. But if you choose not to take it, he will understand. And the Queen is a kind woman, if you talk to her, I am sure she will find a place for you among her court. Your brother said - and forgive me for being so blunt about it - that your family cares little about your fate. So, even if you were to become Queen of Hoshido, King Silva will not stop marching against our borders. Therefore no one will blame you if you don’t put yourself in such a precarious situation.”

“You have a real weird way to be assuring, you know that?”, Leorio huffs, and pulls Alluka to his side again. “Don’t worry Milady, anyone who seeks for your hand in marriage will have to best me first.”

“Like Gon wouldn’t beat you in a fair battle. Well. Not a battle of strength.” Kurapika leans over to the princess conspiratorially. “But if you were to make it a battle of wits and addition...” He raises his brows meaningfully and it brings a chuckle to Alluka’s lips.

Leorio unwinds some of the tension of his shoulders. They are allies now. And Kurapika might be painfully stiff and so honest that it borders on being cruel, but he is making an effort to treat the princess with kindness. What more could Leorio want?

“We should take rest soon,” he suggests, letting his eyes roam once more over Kurapika with concern, considering the signs of fatigue. His attention catches and lingers on a dark scar across Kurapika’s right side, following the line of his waist, broad enough to stem from a deep cut. He noticed it before, but in the rush of their escape, Leorio has not had the time to wonder how he had gotten it. The answer seems obvious. Only war leaves that kind of mark on a body, a heavy swing with a blade, maybe even a skirmish with death.

Kurapika clears his throat and Leorio’s attention snaps back. “Well, if you’re done ogling, perhaps we could find a spot to make camp.”

“I wasn’t-”, Leorio blurts out, but Kurapika is already brushing past him, shoulders bumping hard into Leorio. _Great_.

He decides that he misses the old Kurapika. Misses the playful smiles that he wore, if not his shackles. And sure, if he puts his mind to it, he can think of a few things that he said or did that might have offended the Hoshidan, but was that really a reason to treat him so coldly? They have shared secrets. They have teased each other, and he had seen Kurapika open and vulnerable. Grateful. Gentle, almost. And now that he is free, he gets irate whenever Leorio displays the smallest amount of interest in him. Leorio doesn’t know how to act around him when he’s like that. Should he mind his distance or try to talk it out? The choice would be easier if Leorio could make an educated guess how Kurapika would react. In a group as small as theirs and with danger at their heels, they cannot afford this kind of tension.

 

They walk a bit further, until they spot the biggest, most crooked tree that Kurapika has ever seen in his life. It’s leaning dangerously towards the murky waters, looking like a bored giant had given it a good hearty shove. This created a sort of hollow underneath the base of the stem, where the little group of travelers stored away their belongings. Alluka ties the horses to a root, and Leorio starts prying dry bark off the tree with one of his knives. Kurapika rolls out their bedding.

With the pieces of bark, they start a small flame, for light more than for warmth.

They have a meager dinner of dried meat, hard bread and slightly mealy apples. Leorio and Alluka share some hard cheese as well, and then Leorio hands each of them a bottle of ale and procures a tonic from his satchel. He pours ten drops into Alluka’s ale and then turns to Kurapika with a question in his eyes.

Kurapika declines.

The ale tastes bitter and altogether unpleasant, but it’s weak stuff - they might as well be drinking horse piss. Still, it’s better than emptying their water skins when they have no safe water to refill it with, and so Kurapika downs the beer without a single complaint and retreats to his bedroll. Alluka follows his example, but not for sleep. She is chattering away cheerfully in her mother tongue, reporting to Leorio how well she fares with her studies and which of her teachers had reason to praise her.

“Mother said I need to practice my ballroom dances a lot more. That I cannot be allowed among the court festivities if I keep blundering about like an elephant. Do you think I will have time to practice in Hoshido?”

Leorio chuckles softly. “I’m sure they dance in Hoshido, my dearest of princesses. They may not share our dances, but I always considered ballroom dancing a bit stiff anyway. Too many rules for something that’s meant to be joyful. But if you like to, I could teach you a few more common dances.”

“Wouldn’t that be... improper?”

“Well. I suppose it would not sit right with the old aristocratic farts at castle Krakenburg but if I remember correctly, you do not seek to go back. You’re a young woman, you have a right to shape your own future however you want, regardless of who might sneer at you.”

Kurapika coughs to hide the snickering that bubbles in his chest. Nohrish is a crude language indeed and all too often Leorio reveled in this crudeness, but you had to marvel at how well he applied his profanity. _Old farts_. Kurapika thinks back on the council members of Shirasagi castle, of all the proud lords with their silver hair who cry shame and disgrace at every idea that might bring change. Kurapika never believed in clinging to traditions for traditions sake. Traditions are made to guide people, to bring structure, to create a sense of community. It is only right if they evolve with the people.

But he does not offer his insight. Clearly, if the princess means to include him in this conversation, she will address him or switch to the language of trade. As things are, he would only intrude. And the thought of home fills him with a strange blend of emotions, that are quite at odds with each other. Strangely, relief is not among them. Not too long ago, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever see the castle and his family again. And he longs to see them, so much that it makes him melancholy. But home also means to face decisions that he made, decisions that he still has to make. It does little to quench the pain that thrums behind his eyes.

Alluka’s voice trails off, grows quiet and clumsy with sleep and then she is silent.

Kurapika has his back turned against the fire and his traveling companions, but he still hears Leorio rise and his steps nearing the girl’s bedroll. A rustle of fabric. A soft-spoken word.

Kurapika shifts on his blanket, careful not to make much noise. He comes to lie on his back and closes his eyes against the flickering light of the fire, then cracks them open again - just a little bit, just enough to study the way Leorio is bent over Alluka’s sleeping form, they way he smooths her hair back and presses a kiss on her temple.

His eyes look black but they shimmer with emotion, and the defined angles of his face are softened with tenderness and devotion.

“You love her,” Kurapika says low under his breath, and makes sure to choose the word for love that is reserved for family and friends - the beloved, not the lovers. There is a distinction to be made, in Hoshidan and in the trader’s tongue, and Kurapika does not want to presume. (Yet there is only one word for love in Nohrish.)

“I do,” Leorio says. Unashamed. “I watched her grow up. I... I raised her. She’s mine, just as much as she is her mother’s. If not more because the gods know her parents don’t give a shit about her.” He drags a hand across his jaw as if to examine how scruffy his skin has become, but more than anything, Leorio looks tired. “Kurapika... whatever happens on our way to Hoshido, can you promise me to protect her? I’ll gladly put my life on the line for hers and I know I can’t expect you to do the same, but-”

“I promise.” He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t even think twice. “I have not forgotten what you did for me, Leorio. I am in your debt. And even if I had no duty towards you, I have my honor. How could I go back and face my queen if I would not protect those who cannot protect themselves? Your princess is safe with me. And so are you.”

“I think I can look after myself,” Leorio scoffs and rises to his full height, which would have been impressive, if not for the popping noise that seemed to come from his spine. Leorio hisses and presses his hands against the small of his back. “To earn the rank of a royal butler, one must prove one’s skills in the art of close combat. I know where to stab a man in order to disarm and I know how to serve a quick and painless death. If we are caught in a battle, I will not be a burden.”

“I see,” Kurapika says dryly and props himself up a little. “And how many lives did you have to take so far, to protect your sheltered princess?” Leorio draws in his breath with anger, but Kurapika presses on before he can utter so much as a word. “And how much sorrow did it cause you? You are kind, Leorio. Which makes you quite a formidable caretaker, but you are no warrior. So I’d implore you to stick to your talents and leave the bloody work to me.”

Kurapika knows that he is harsh, but the last things he needs - the last thing he wants - is for Leorio to try to harden his heart to fill out a role he is not meant to fill out. There is no shame in being soft. There is no shame in meeting people with trust, regardless if they deserve it or not. In fact, the world could use a few more men of Leorio’s caliber.

“You’re kind, too,” Leorio says stubbornly.

“You don’t _know_ me, Leorio,” Kurapika retorts, and there’s a warning in that. A refusal. “Don’t presume that you do, just because you spent a few hours with me, when I was caged and at my weakest.” Kurapika rolls over and turns his back on Leorio.

“Fine!”, Leorio hisses. “Be that way. Whatever.” And he stomps to his own bedroll and sits down with a huff. “But I’m keeping watch. Let’s pray that that’s not beyond my capabilities as well.”

Kurapika doesn’t grace this childish display with an answer. He doesn’t care how much he heckles Leorio’s ego, so long as they both keep to themselves. It’s better for them, anyway.

He no longer has the excuse of an uncertain future. He is going home - back to his duties, back to his bride. He has no right to indulge in Leorio’s playful flirtations, or claim any of his gentle care for himself.

_But you wanted him by your side_ , a little voice inside of his head accuses. _You practically begged Prince Killua to place this man’s life under your protection._

Ah, but how could he have made any other choice, when the prince made him believe that Leorio would be left a cruel fate? That he may be punished or executed for a plot that he had nothing to do with? It was the right decision. Kurapika knows this to be true. And it doesn’t matter if he may have also developed a certain... attachment to the man. Because it’s not going to lead anywhere. Because it is going to end here, and now.

_You haven’t changed one bit, Kurapika,_ the voice whispers. Lulling. Familiar. He knows its rural accent. He remembers the lips that used to shape this voice, remembers their soft press on the skin of his knuckles, as a young man was swearing fealty in the privacy of Kurapika’s tent. A scandalous gesture, by Hoshidan standards. Kotarou. Sweet, loyal Kotarou. Bright-eyed, full of noble ideas and arduous dedication. A good man. Young and handsome and so, so eager to prove his worth to Kurapika. _You make it so easy for people to want you, but may the gods be kind to those who dare to act on it. You teased him and you invited his touch only to push him away the second he considered your offer. You’re a coward, my liege. You have always been a coward._

_You’re not real,_ Kurapika thinks stubbornly and keeps his eyes pressed shut, keeps his hands balled to fists underneath his blanket. _It’s just the woods playing tricks on my mind._

Koutarou died eleven months ago on the battlefield. Just another victim to this terrible and ravenous war. Kurapika makes himself remember every painful detail, so that the memory may tether him to reality. And the voice inside him falls silent.

Then Kurapika hears Leorio rise again and he grows very still. Has he uttered some of his thoughts out loud? Is there a specter hovering over his form, reaching out with lifeless fingers?

Leorio’s footsteps come near… and move past him. Onward, to the path that leads deeper into the woods. Why?

Kurapika opens his eyes.

Leorio is a black silhouette in a sea of shadows. To his left and right, the waters ripple, come alive like there’s a thousand bodies stretching against the surface, trying to grasp the blue wisps of light that hover in the air.

“Leorio?”, Kurapika whispers, but the woods warp his voice, turn it into something small and frightened, the call of a child. And then Kurapika spots the boy at the end of the stone path. His skin glows with a greenish pallor. He looks thin, frail, hollowed out by starvation or sickness or both. Dark marks cover his neck, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. And Kurapika remembers.

_(“All of us Ice Tribe kids, we had lost a lot of loved ones to the Great Plague.”)_

Kurapika kicks off his blankets and rushes to Alluka’s side, trying to shake the princess awake, but she does not stir. He looks upon her blank face, then back to Leorio, who keeps marching on, away. If he disappeared into the shadows-

Kurapika doesn’t waste time putting on shoes. He reaches for the princess’ bow and quiver and runs after Leorio.


	6. The Art of Pleasure

_Pairo often sought out Kurapika under the pretense of discussing the state of their troops. As one of the monks, he was in charge of both the physical and the emotional well-being of their battalion and so it only made sense for Kurapika to rely on his judgment._

_In truth, he came to gossip and tease._

_"Poetry, again?", he asked after taking one glance at the scroll that Kurapika was studying. "Don't you think your attention is better applied elsewhere?"_

_"I don't see why I should neglect my cultural studies just because we're at war," Kurapika scoffs. "After all, poetry is what divides man from animal."_

_"Poetry can be found in many things, not just banned with paper and ink, you know." As Kurapika pretends not to understand what Pairo is hinting at, his friend tried a different approach. "I watched you sparring today. It was quite adorable how you held herself back to not hurt the boy. Although-" Pairo tapped his chin. "I think you could have beat the crap out of him and he would have still kissed the ground you walk on."_

_"And how would that improve his skills with the lance? He needs to be matched against an equal opponent, so he may learn."_

_"Indeed. An equal opponent. Not_ you _."_

_"He asked me for a match."_

_"And you indulged him." Pairo sighed wistfully. "It's rare to see you play favorites like this."_

_"I am doing no such thing." Kurapika rolled up his scroll and graced Pairo with a furrowing of his brow. Usually, his discontent was enough to make people stammer and apologize, but Pairo was his friend first and his subordinate last._

_"Mm. Kurapika, I know you. I can tell you're sweet on the boy and I can't blame you. He seems just your type. Honest and naive, loyal to the point of stupidity. Are you planning on taking him to bed?"_

_Kurapika sputtered. He fought for composure, but could not stop his cheeks from coloring and growing hot with embarrassment. The nerve, to bring up these things so openly and in broad daylight, no less!_

_"I don't see why this is any of your concern," Kurapika replied briskly._

_"Because I am your friend and I wish to see you happy. And while I wish nothing more than for you to find a worthy companion, I had hoped that you'd choose someone who is not so..._ young _."_

_"He is only two years younger than me!" Kurapika didn't care for the edge in Pairo's words and if his response turned out a little harsh, it might be blamed on that._

_"And I bet he has taken just as many lovers as you, which is to say, none. You are aware that he will expect you to be the assertive one? You are older and you hold a higher rank." Pairo sighed and held out his hands like a peace offering. "Look. I'm not saying this to discourage you."_

_"You could have fooled me," Kurapika muttered._

_"If you want to love him, love him. Any man that makes you happy has my blessing and my support. But if you do, there are things you should learn first. Preparations have to be made if you wish to lie with him. Because you wouldn't want to hurt him, or yourself. So if you would like to reconsider my offer..."_

_It was a blessing that Pairo did not finish his sentence because Kurapika didn't need to hear the respective offer again. He hadn't forgotten. In fact, the idea still haunted him, at night when he was lying awake. Or when he went on his patrols around camp and passed a few tents whose inhabitants did not care about keeping things quiet and discreet. When they held council and General Nana praised his sharp, rational mind, graced him with a friendly smile._

_He was a handsome fellow, indeed. And perhaps Kurapika would not have minded General Nana's hands on his body, if the man's attention and dedication did not belong wholly to Pairo._

_"I can't. He's yours. It wouldn't feel right."_

_"And what if you joined the both of us? And I'm not even suggesting that you participate - we could let you watch, and learn. I could explain to you how it's done, as he makes love to me. Would that make you feel more at ease?"_

_It didn't. What an indecent thing to say, to think! It made Kurapika's skin grow uncomfortably hot underneath his robes. How could he dare to watch the most intimate union of two people? "No. Pairo, please don't- I couldn't do that. Never."_

_Pairo smacked his lips together. "You know, I really wished that you hadn't been taken to the palace. They turned you into a creature like themselves, something bound and restrained. Your body's needs are not less worth than your mind's. You mustn't feel ashamed to learn about what brings you pleasure or how you can bring pleasure to others. It's an art, just like poetry. It takes care. And there is no one way to be a lover. But if you are not comfortable with the idea, I will not push you. Just remember that you can turn to us, if you ever have a question about these things."_

_He promised that he would, if only to make Pairo shut up. But in the end, his shame was greater than his need. And when Kotarou finally came to see him and kissed his hand, what Kurapika remembered most was that he could easily hurt his lover for his lack of experience._

_("My lord," the soldier said. His lips were soft and Kurapika's skin prickled where they had touched him. "I am yours to command. Always.")_

_And Kurapika looked at his hands, wondering how one would translate the burning desire in one's heart into gentle motions. He didn't know, because he never dared to ask. And he could not dare to ask now. So with a heavy heart, he sent the young man away. Denied himself once more what he truly wanted._

_He was good at that._

 

Every morning when Mito wakes, she takes her first breath of mountain air and slowly examines her body to see if she feels any different. But the sky is still bleak and her limbs still lack any strength.

At least, there is no one to witness her in this pitiful state. No one but Oito, who still refuses to leave her side for even a minute. Who has taken truly drastic measures to motivate Mito to do the smallest of tasks. She refuses to eat unless Mito eats. She has pulled her futon next to Mito's, so she may have company even in slumber. And when Mito cannot bear to rise in the morning, Oito goes about the room to open the windows and fetch breakfast, and then she returns and creeps back under the covers and acts as though Mito's choice is a lavish and decadent one.

Eventually, Mito grows sick of it.

She begins to fight for some precious time to herself, and takes small walks to escape her overly enthusiastic caretaker. And Oito smiles at her as if it's the bravest thing Mito could ever do. They take baths in the hot spring, often at obscure hours, whenever the fancy strikes, and since they are the only guests, the innkeepers do not complain.

Mito prefers to bathe alone, or when the sky has turned black. To see the stars, she claims. But the truth is that Oito has a different sense of modesty, that has Mito... confused. Flustered. Oito could not stand the feeling of wet fabric on her skin and so she would slip into the waters fully nude, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that Mito would see.

It shouldn't have made a difference. Their bodies are shaped in a similar fashion, after all, even if they are not the same. And there is no reason to get hung up on the differences between them. And yet, Mito's eyes trail over the swell of Oito's breasts like they're a mystery to behold, and the dark shadow between Oito's legs catches her attention like a question without an answer. It's a strange sensation that washes over Mito if she allows herself to look - like there's a taut knot inside her, tangled and tense and all its strings connect to needle-thin points in her skin. Sometimes, the pulling and prickling is impossible to bear.

So Mito prefers the dark.

(But she can't make herself unsee what she has already seen. And it's there, even when the night veils it. Lessened, but not forgotten.)

Oito is restless, even in sleep. She sighs and mumbles. She kicks and turns. And Mito lies beside her, stiff as a board yet too aware of the disturbance by her side. Then one night, she has enough. Mito rolls over, onto the futon besides hers and holds Oito's body down with her own. Oito lets out the smallest noise of disturbance, shifts once more, and finally grows still. She is warm and soft and Mito finds herself pressing closer against the other woman's back.

For comfort, she tells herself.

 

That morning, Mito is the first one to wake. She untangles herself from Oito and rises. She is the one to open the windows. The skies are shrouded in gray, and a fine spray of rain is coming down, light but steady. The kind of weather to stay inside and tend to one's sewing or read a novel. Mito did not bring a novel. Mito had no say in the packing for this trip at all, nor had she been in the mood to do her part and oh, how deeply she regrets it now. Her fingers are itching for an occupation.

So she dresses herself, slowly and with care, and descends the flight of stairs that leads from their room to the reception of the inn and asks if she could borrow some needle and thread, if there is any mending to be done in the house.

"You Highness, I don't think-"

"It's for my friend," she lies. She is not in the mood to debate what work does and does not befit a queen.

Mito returns with her arms full, a basket of fabric scraps tucked to her side and a plate of fruits balanced on her right hand. Oito doesn't have the stomach for rice so early in the morning and prefers a light breakfast, and for the duration of their stay, Mito has kept to that as well. She finds Oito awake and in the process of undressing, her form mostly obscured by a wide paper screen. Once more, Mito feels that tautness settling underneath her skin.

"Ah!", Oito says upon spotting her. "There you are. I was wondering if you had set out on a walk."

"This is hardly the weather for a walk," Mito replies and puts the plate of food on the table. She sits and digs through the cuts of silk and linen. None of these are big enough to be made into a sash, but a few of them might be repurposed as hair ribbons. Mito picks a strip of vibrant red, sure that it would look beautiful against Oito's dark hair. Not that she needs adornment. The rich brown waves that cascade down her back are a sight to behold, shimmering like polished wood set with bronze, and here and there, strands of silver starlight peek through them.

"Well, I suppose not. But I figured it takes more than a little drizzle to stop you."

What a strange sentiment, considering that lately, Mito has been held back by everything and nothing at all. "I brought us breakfast," she says, because she does not know what else to say.

Mito folds the fabric to shape a hem and fixes it with pins and pins and pins. She puts a needle between her teeth as she seeks for the right color of thread and gets to work. In and out the needle dances, slow at first until her fingers find their rhythm again and she can pick the right tension and space for her stitches with ease. But while she keeps her eyes on her work, she still listens for the slip of silk over skin.

She keeps her legs pressed very tightly together, for lately, she has noticed herself becoming quite - no. It's embarrassing to think about and surely just another change brought on by her increasing age, like the copper of her hair slowly fading to gold.

Oito steps out from behind the paravent and comes to sit next to Mito, comfortably close. She picks up a peach and bites into it.

"You're so good at this!", she marvels. "I never had the patience for sewing. Back at school, we were all encouraged to pick up crafts and make clothes for those in need and I ended up pricking my fingers so often, I was taught how to knit instead. I remember going to bed each night with my fingers cramped and sore. I don't miss it at all. But I see that your hands are nimble enough to avoid such pains."

"Ging had a habit of tearing his clothes,” she explains. “There was not a day when he didn't come home in need of some mending, can you imagine? The future king of the realm incapable to be mindful of his own appearance, incapable to have even a sliver of care. How embarrassing! I couldn't make the servants pay for his lack of consideration, so _I_ started tending to his clothes. I pricked myself often enough, let me tell you. But it didn't hurt so much." Of course it didn't. She had enough callouses to shield her from the sharp edge. Not many of them remain, but now she has her skill to avoid injury in the first place.

Oito leans in close to watch the needlework until her arm brushes against Mito’s. Her unbound hair spills against Mito's shoulder and her sweet breath tickles against Mito's cheek.

Impatience spreads through the queen like a shiver, pooling in her lap and it's all she can do not to rock her hips in discomfort. Her cheeks flush with frustration. By the gods, what a pain it was to age. If only there was a way to relieve some of that tension.

"Mito-san, are you alright? You seem a bit feverish."

Without warning, Oito's fingers brush against Mito's cheek and the queen flinches. Pain shoots through her fingertip and she drops her sewing with a hiss.

"I'm sorry! Did you hurt yourself?"

"It's fine," Mito says, regarding the dot of blood that swells on her index finger. She stuffs it into her mouth and sucks on the wound, tasting iron and salt.

"Let me see."

"Really, it is nothing," Mito assures, but she offers her hand to the other woman regardless because she knows that Oito can be stubborn. Let her see for herself. And Oito wraps her slender hand around Mito's broader one. She bows her head low and blows gently on the tiny wound, making Mito shiver once more.

"Does that help with the pain?"

"I'm not sure."

So Oito does it again and Mito gasps and grows hot all over and no amount of clenching her thighs can stop the slickness that spreads to her undergarments.

"Oito?", Mito whispers, feeling too strange to bother with the honorifics.

"Yes?"

"How did you know?"

Oito smiles gently and curls Mito's fingers against her own. "How did I know what?", she asks and then, almost as an afterthought, whispers: " _Mito._ "

"Back in the carriage, you said that as you were sick you could hardly endure your husband touching you. But how were you sure that it wasn't just because you didn't love him?"

She knows the question is invasive. But as she sees the other woman so healthy and so unafraid to touch another person, Mito wonders how long it will take for herself to be well again and how to tell when she has reached that point. What if she had _always_ been sick? (For there was never a man whose touch she could have longed for.) What if she had just grown worse now? What if there is no getting better?

"Oh. Well. That's..." Oito let out a laugh like a hiccup, small and sudden. "It was both, in a way. I... I don't mind looking at men. Not at all. They certainly have some… _features_ that I find appealing. I know that I could have easily wanted my husband, if he had made me care for him at all. But he was cruel and careless. He looked at me and saw me as a tool for his desires. But I always had desires of my own, even if they did not extend to him. And as long as I only picked women to keep my bed warm, he did not mind. But my sickness took even that from me.”

For a moment, Mito is very quiet. 

“You took women as lovers?” she asks, as if her ears could have betrayed her. But it’s not possible, is it? And yet it made so much sense. Oito’s unwavering conviction that there were those who would need the marriage reform. The fact that Kurapika had confided in her when he would not confide in Mito. They must have shared some kinship.

“Does this surprise you? I suppose it would. But I have always preferred the company of women. I have always felt more… _valued_ among my own. And, well, I always felt like women are beautiful and interesting. Not that men aren't, but. Different. I... I'm sorry, I'm not making much sense to you, am I? I can tell from your face."

Mito shakes her head. "No, it's- I am starting to believe I am asking the wrong questions."

"Well, then what questions would you like to ask? Whatever it is, I promise I won't laugh." She reaches for Mito's arm, a simple, comforting touch. But determined, too, for Oito does not let go.

Mito swallows the nervous lump in her throat and tries to focus on the right words to pick.

"How can you tell when you... when you crave for someone? How are you sure it's not just sympathy, but something... else?"

"Lust, you mean."

_Lust._ Mito has heard this word in very few instances and none of them positive, but Oito says it so gently that it doesn't seem this large and horrible beast anymore. Still, Mito cannot make herself repeat it. She only nods. "Yes. _That_." She picks up needle lest it gets lost among the tatami mats, and worries her thumb along the length of the steel. It's smooth surface has something very comforting to it.

Oito's brows furrow with confusion as if the question was giving her trouble. "Mito, have you... do you ever look at someone and feel awed, like the sight of them compels your eyes and your mouth and your skin starts prickling hot?"

She does not reply. She cannot reply. The tip of per thumb toys with the sharp end of the needle.

"That's what it's like. You find yourself wanting to be close to them. Their presence fills you with an unquiet sort of purpose, like there's something you're meant to do with yourself, but you can't quite figure out what and something inside of you comes alive. It's like a pulse, humming under your skin and then it starts between your legs and-"

Oito stops to let go of Mito. She presses her knuckles against her pink cheeks as if to test how hot they have grown. Meanwhile, Mito wants to crawl away and hide until her body stops feeling just like - just like _that_.

"Of course," Oito says and has to clear her throat, "When you reach that point it's quite impossible to miss and so very hard not to… to _do_ something about it. Are you sure that you haven't... No. Forget I asked. It's unfair of me. Oh, Mito, I'm so sorry."

She seems miserable. Although what Oito is miserable for, Mito does not understand. She'd give anything to make this feeling _stop_. "And these longings, they would just come over you? Just like that?"

Oito tilts her head. She rubs her necks and drops her gaze. "It doesn't always get that intense, of course. At times, it is more like a... suggestion. But. I had a friend, you see. To me she was the most beautiful girl in the world. I loved the strong set of her shoulders and her proud smile and she had such firm and dedicated hands. I wanted to kiss her, every inch of her. I burned so hard that at night, when I was alone in my room, I let my hands sneak over my body, pretending they were hers. I embraced this desire instead of turning from it and in a way, I think, it set me free-"

And Mito's mind, ever so treacherous these days, easily summons the memory of Oito's naked body, caught right before dipping her toes into the hot spring water. Soft weighted curves, tan with white stripes like a tigress.

_I wanted to kiss her, every inch of her._

Mito stands and the strip of fabric glides to the floor. Without meeting Oito's curious gaze, she says: "I'm sorry, I- I think I should take a walk after all. The air- I need the air." She fumbles, and stammers, and she knows that she is not making sense, but heavens, she needs to clear her head. She wants to run, run, run until her legs burn and the cold mountain drizzle quenches her burning skin.

Oito does not question this. She does not ask 'now?' or point out that the weather has not cleared. Instead, she takes in all - the timing, Mito's clamped, trembling hands, her unwillingness to return eye contact - and she shrouds herself in sorrow.

(And sorrow must be an old friend of hers, for the lines it had left around the corners of her mouth which grow ever so much prominent now.)

"I made you uncomfortable."

"No," Mito assures, but gathers the hem of her kimono and takes a few insecure steps away. "I am just feeling unwell. The stale air in here is weighing me down. I apologize for interrupting you."

"But-" Oito gestures desperately at the wide open windows, through which a gentle draft carries. "Look, I am sorry that I was so... indecent in my honesty. In my need to share I forgot what a private person you are. And I'd hate to think that I have offended you, or worse, made you feel unsafe. Mito, you are a dear friend to me and I assure you, I wouldn't ever look at you with that kind of longing."

Mito takes another step and sways as if struck by a blow. _Why not,_ she wonders, but oh, what right does she have to ask such things? Is it not bad enough that she selfishly claimed all of Oito's attention with her sickness? And it instead of gratitude, she is repaying it with _lust_ and more selfishness. She needs to go and wash off the sludge that is poisoning her mind, and more importantly, she needs to free Oito from her presence.

But because Mito has learned to feel shame, so much shame, in her life, she does not explain herself. Instead, she says: "I expect to return shortly," and leaves the room. In her quivering fist still rests the sewing needle like a slumbering secret.

 

The queen does not follow her usual path, but the rocky trail that winds lazily up the mountain. It is just steep enough to make her muscles ache with use after the first mile. After two weeks of lying about, she welcomes that feeling. She pins the needle onto the front of her kimono, over her heart. It would be rude to lose it.

The drizzle settles on her clothes, her hair, like tiny beads of glass, and she breathes the crisp mountain air greedily. Her chest expands, and finally some - if not all - of the tension falls away. She walks on until her soles burn and a set of narrow stone steps comes in sight, trailing away from the main path. A bit further up, a wooden arch spans above the steps, its red color faded but otherwise intact. There is a little shrine up in these mountains, and Mito feels compelled to take her rest there, even if she does not know what to pray for. The gods may listen to a troubled heart, but it takes a clear mind to address them.

So she reflects as she takes the ascent, about every step that has taken her to this point, this moment. So much has happened in such a short time and it is easy to lose track of it, in the light of her newer and quite overwhelming conflicts. So she remembers her losses and her quarrels. She remembers the law she has fought for so hard and how she has come to realize, quite too late, how Gon was not the only one of her children who has needed it.

All that she ever wanted was to do right by her people and by those she loved and yet, she has been blind to their needs. She had been blind to her own needs, too. To think that a mere few weeks ago she had been afraid no one would want a marriage reform! And here she was, despairing over how her own body longed for the embrace of another woman. Two months ago, the mere idea had been impossible. Because it was not spoken of. And because no one spoke of it, no one thought of it.

They all need this law, every citizen in the realm, regardless if they make use of it or not. So they may discuss it and reflect upon themselves. So they could learn their true self.

When she finally reaches the shrine at the end of the stone stairwell and kneels down in front of it, Mito does not pray for guidance. She asks only that the gods may send her a sign if Kurapika was still alive and that they may protect him and lead him safely back to her.

And the skies answer with a rumble of thunder. A rumble, then a growl and a snarl.

Mito's blood freezes in her veins.

A bear, she thinks. Hopes. But she knows the call of a monster when he hears one, and she has faced this kind of monster countless times. Mito stands and turns around. She regards the creature with a strange calm in her mind, considering that this time, she cannot count on the safe weight of a lance in her hands to defend herself.

"You have picked a bad time to disturb me," she says.

The Faceless lets out a wet gurgle. It is shaped quite like the exaggerated, bloated version of a human. And it stands as tall as one and a half men, with heavy muscles swelling underneath its green skin and a black leather mask that stretches across its head. There are ten holes cut into the mask, yet they do not reveal the face underneath, giving the monster its name. A Faceless is naked safe for a black leather harness adorned with chains and shackles - for they heed no master, not even the mage that summoned them. Driven only by violence, they possess no mind of their own and their fists can easily crush a skull.

Slowly, Mito pulls the sewing needle from her kimono. Not the weapon she would have asked for - barely a weapon at all - but that is all that she has. That, and her reflexes.

"It's impressive that you made it so far into our country, so I will give you one last chance to turn away. Leave, and you might keep your life."

The Faceless roars and charges.

Lightning tears through the sea of clouds above and the rain begins to pour.

 

Oito keeps a nervous watch on the weather outside as she pins up her freshly braided hair, knowing that once she is done with it, there will be nothing else to occupy her hands, nothing to keep her from worrying about Mito out there somewhere, getting drenched.

_She left without an umbrella. Foolish,_ Oito thinks with a pang of fear.

It is her fault, for driving Mito away. If the queen gets lost, if she grows sicker or winds up hurt, Oito will never forgive herself. Why, oh why, has she insisted on pushing boundaries that didn't need to be pushed? Because it was a crime against women to not let them know their own bodies, to not let them choose their own pleasure? Still. She has tried too hard too soon. And she regrets it deeply.

_I should have let her pick her own pace,_ Oito decides.

But Mito has asked. And Oito wanted so badly to be known that she may have revealed a bit too much. Sadly, her misstep has not cured her from this desire. She still quivers and aches with the longing to explain, to be seen. She knows that dedication alone will not grant her a special place in the queen’s heart, but if even a fraction of her love could reach Mito and warm her tired heart, it will have been worth it.

_Love._ Lately, her love has grown inside of her, no longer a gentle glow, rounded and defined like the full moon in a starless sky, but a burning sun, filling her with summer heat. Outside, the rain rushes louder and louder, colder and colder, as if to challenge her.

Once the last of her curls is pinned in place, she leaves the room and slips to the entrance of the inn, leaning out just far enough to catch the rain in her hands.

This time, she needs to have faith.

 

Oito waits. She stands unwavering, for minutes that feel like hours, and watches the fat droplets turn to a gentle drizzle again. Fog rises from the ground to blur and obscure the mountains harsh edges. Stones wrapped in cotton. It swallows the world with all its colors and sound, until there is only a meager area left.

With the fog, a chill creeps under Oito's robes, as bold and unwelcome as her late husband's crude hands on her skin. Her arms, her chest prickle with goosebumps, yet she stays, resilient as a tower.

And then she spies a figure and her heart leaps forward and up - but oh, the dark silhouette that parts the mist approaches with bold and purposeful steps. A head held high, a regal poise, shoulders that do not slope under the weight of misery. And as the figure approaches, their face is nothing so sweet as Mito's even if it wears her features. Yet it wears them all wrong - the mouth is hardened, the brows set with gloom. It wears Mito's silks too, splattered with black so much like calligraphy ink.

But it is not her, it cannot be.

Mito-who-is-not-Mito halts before the steps of the inn. Up close, Oito marvels at the slick copper of her hair, threatening to outshine the golden circlet that wraps around her neck. She notices, too, the black dripping from the hem of the Queen's kimono and tainting her white socks, her sandals. She smells a little like autumn - like rain and rust and rot.

"He is alive," the figure says, "Oito, he-"

Mito-who-is-not-Mito takes a deep breath and softens into the woman that Oito recognizes. Her lips tremble ever so slightly and she raises her arms to take Oito by both shoulders. "Kurapika is alive." Words like a sigh.

"You're drenched in blood," Oito says, only just recognizing the stench. But it is not blood borne from a healthy flow, this one is old, spoiled, the kind of blood that has been sitting out for too long. _What did you do?_

Mito does not seem to care. Her eyes are alight and focused on a single matter. "I had a vision, when I was out in the mountains."

 

The flow of blood carries life, and none is stronger than the ichor of a Faceless, for death and blunt reanimation magic echoes through their veins. When Mito dipped below her foe's attack and buried a needle in its throat, all that false life came spraying out, pooling on the cool slate of the mountain shrine's steps. Making a mirror.

Gestures and words are inadequate tools to recreate images, but Mito still tries to share what she saw in that black pool mirror, in as much detail as she could.

Upon the ground a young man lay, his eyelids fluttering as he struggled to stay conscious. Blood trickled down his temple from a wound just below the hairline. His face is not familiar to Mito. All she can tell is that he has hair the color of night, and the more angular features of a Westerner. He wears a black suit with a purple-checkered vest, which marks him as a butler. A pair of black shades has slipped from the bridge of his prominent nose.

And above this young man's face rises a howl of anger, wild and snarling.

_Don't touch him!_

It was Kurapika's voice calling out.

And Mito stumbled forward, reaching with her hands into the liquid mirror, begging it to show her the face of her son. But the image remained the same. And then it blurred and disappeared.

 

"He must be important in some way," Mito concludes as she paces about the room, gathering a charcoal pen and a large piece of paper. She is by no means an artist, but still she tries to ban this stranger's face onto the parchment before the memory of his features erodes. "We have to find him. If we find him, we find Kurapika."

"How can you be so sure? All we know for certain is that their path cross at some point," Oito points out, choosing her words with care. Although the last thing she wants is to crush the Queen's newfound hope or the spark of dedication that has returned to her lovely deep-brown eyes.

"Because-" Mito says and she puts down the nib of charcoal. "Because Kurapika was angry for his sake."

"But Kurapika is always angry," Oito mutters softly, almost as if to herself. "It is in his nature, as much as his kindness."

"But not all anger is the same. You should have heard him, then you would understand. When he cried out... he was anguished. I think... I think this stranger is important because he is important _to Kurapika_. Or will be."

Mito looks back at her sketch, a rough outline of an angular chin, a nose that came out a little too crooked. She frowns. That sketch, too, is a poor translation. She will never quite capture the shape of his lids or the romantic arch of his mouth, not even if he were to sit right across from her. But his glasses. She is confident that she can copy those. And now that Mito considers it, they strike her as the most important detail. Not that many people could afford optics, and she has not met a single person who donned spectacles of black glass. She needs to get word out to her spies. If only her vision had revealed more to her, just a glimpse of the surroundings of this young fellow! Alas, she has to work with what she has been given.

"I want to depart tomorrow morning at the first glimpse of dawn," Mito announces as she adds two dark circles to her sketch, as even as she can muster.

"Do you feel well enough to return?" Oito inquires. It's a gentle, prodding question, the kind of which Mito has heard a lot during their stay. A question whose tone implies that Oito still feels like she needs to be handled like something fragile - something to be wrapped in silk, only light surface touch allowed. And the caution is not unwarranted. Right now, Mito may be buzzing with attention, but she has not forgotten the blankness that had occupied her mind, her every sense. What if this was just a short relapse, a quick taste of joy before the darkness pulled her under again?

"I am not sure," Mito admits. She owes Oito that much honesty. "But I cannot stay away for very much longer. I know what I must do now."

"Then I will inform our hosts."

"Wait!"

Oito complies, her brows raising curiously. "Yes, my queen?"

"I wanted to say... thank you. For being by my side. I know that I have not been very enjoyable company, but I want you to know that I am grateful. You have been a true friend to me and your kindness will not be forgotten. If there may come time when I can return the favor..."

"I only wished for you to smile again, that would have been reward enough. But seeing how you have not shaken your melancholy entirely, I reckon it is too early for praise and thanks."

"Your humbleness honors you, but I have to insist, or else I will be forever indebted to you. If there ever is something you need from me, no matter how big or small the request, do not hesitate to ask. I promise, you will not be denied."

With a huff, Oito puts her arms akimbo. "What a dangerous thing to promise. What if I asked for something preposterous?"

Mito laughs. The sound erupts in her chest, so sudden and vehement, it almost scares her. "You? You, who has asked for so little of my hospitality, in all the moons that you have come to live under my roof? I don't think there is anything you could long for that would make me turn you away."

"Then perhaps you don't understand me that well," Oito says and clasps her hands together so firmly that her knuckles turn white.

Mito opens her mouth to protest, but really, who is she to know another woman's heart? She barely can guess the shape of her own. "In that case, you must teach me."

Oito blinks. Frowns. "Teach you?"

"Help me to understand your intentions, your desires. Help me see you, without ignorance. I don't want you to feel like a stranger if you're with me. And I know it's my fault, because I have not always responded in the most... appreciative manner. I cowered from the things you told me today, and I apologize. I will try to be braver."

"Mito-san, I..." Oito fidgets with her sleeve. "Let's focus on the things right ahead. I will tell the innkeepers that we are departing tomorrow, and then we need to start packing our belongings. You ought to change into something clean and dry, you must be chilled to your bones. How do you feel about a hot bath?"

"Will you join me?"

Oito's mouth thins into a small comma. "I would like that," she says, yet her face speaks of ever so much sorrow. "But I can't. Mito, I said I would never look at you in a manner that makes you uncomfortable, but that doesn't mean that I... I can't. I cannot be that close to you anymore, I'm sorry."

Oito turns and before Mito can make sense of her words, she slips out of the room, placing her feet so gently that her curls barely move to the rhythm of her steps.


	7. Wyrm

Leorio fears the horrors that the woods can bring. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that he fears the threat that they pose to those he cares about, he fears the misery that its mirror images can inflict. He himself has returned to this place often enough to know and avoid most of its dirty tricks. The key is to never take the hand that is offered by the specter which calls your name, no matter what dear face it wears. To know that the accusations that it hurls at you are fed by your own guilt.

But in terms of looks, the mirage is too accurate to ignore. Leorio's eyes catch on the mole on not-Pietro's chin, and he realizes with a start that he doesn’t recall that mole. Nor does he remember his friend being quite so wasted away, even near the end. In the specter's gaunt face, Pietro's strong eyebrows look horribly out of place, like two very bushy caterpillars that have been deliberately placed above his eyes to guard them.

And it's because he doesn't look like Leorio remembers that the copy's features must be shaped after the truth, unsoftened by fondness or nostalgia. This is why Leorio keeps coming back: to sharpen what has become blurry over the years. This is what he fears: that one day, when the woods have given up on trying to prey on him, Pietro won't appear for him anymore. And then his best friend's face will slip from his mind for good.

But by the heavens, he could do without that thing talking to him.

_You broke your promise,_ it whispers without moving its cold, dead lips, its words slithering right into Leorio's head.

"Uh-huh," Leorio says. "You tell yourself that, buddy. Also, I think that is far enough." And with that decision, he stops. He has kept a slow pace, much slower that the creature trying to lure him away, forcing it to stop and wait for him twice now. But any further and he might not find his way back to camp. "You know I'm not gonna come with you. I never do."

_You said we would always be together._

"And we were, for as long as you were alive. C'mon. You gotta do better than that, kiddo."

_We can be together again._

Leorio puts his hands on his hips and scoffs. "Or I could stay alive and save other people's lives. I'm a healer now. I have a purpose. So whatever ugly death you have to offer, it doesn't seem too appealing, sorry." He is acting a lot more callous than he feels. There is so much that Leorio still holds back, things he has meant to say to Pietro. He knows he'd feel better if he just spills them right now, but if he allows himself to give into this illusion, he is not only going to put himself in danger, he will also insult Pietro's memory.

Pietro isn't here. Pietro is buried back at their village, in one of so many nameless graves.

_You call yourself a healer? Why, you're just a servant, dancing to some petty noble's wiles and you accept the way they use you because you like the distractions that your new life is offering you._

"Well, fuck you, too", Leorio says, surprise softening his insults. He hasn't heard that one before and he is not quite sure if he should find the change in tone alarming or not.

_Men or women, you don't care who keeps your bed warm, as long as they make you forget where you came from. Because you so love to be important to someone, anyone. But no matter what fancy clothes you wear or which lover you charm, it doesn't change that at your core, you're still the same little street rat. Tell me, when was the last time you went home? Must've been quite a while. Are you afraid to go back?_

"I think I'll go now." He takes a step backwards, not quite daring to turn his back on the thing. Perhaps... perhaps he has underestimated the situation. The mood is definitely becoming a bit hostile for his tastes.

_They let us die,_ not-Pietro hisses and he sounds upset. Which doesn't mean a thing. Just a puppet trying to mirror-

_The Zoldycks knew that we were dying and they did nothing to aid us with the Plague. Why would they, when it was keeping our people busy and our numbers small? Can't shake off your reigns when you're busy surviving. It even gave them the perfect excuse to steal away our tribe's youngest, indoctrinate them with misplaced loyalty. It's such an obvious plot, even your little Hoshidan temptation figured it out right away._

"Fuck. You." Leorio clenches his hands to fists but he takes another step back. It's just trying to get a rise out of him and damn him if it isn't working, but he's not so stupid to punch that little hellspawn right in the face, no matter how much he wants to.

_And here you are, squirming willingly underneath their heels although you know. And for what? A pair of baby blue eyes looking at you like you're something special? You really think that your sweet little princess is any less corrupt than the rest of her family? Grow up. She's just playing with you, laughing at how easy it is to fool you. She could cut your balls right off and you'd thank her._

The world turns into white noise for a second. The creature that is and is not Pietro seems to grow in front of Leorio as the world rushes past-

Something quite like an insect flits by Leorio's ear, close enough to feel the wind tugging at his skin and he stops, puts his foot down. Puts his fist down, too, as he realizes that he has charged right at the specter.

A long shadow hits it right in the shoulder and the specter stumbles back. Small fingers reach up to touch a wooden shaft that protrudes from Pietro's body, as if to test that it was real. And the specter grins.

_Looks like your distraction arrived._

"Get away from that _thing_ , Leorio," Kurapika commands. His voice is as sharp as his aim.

Slowly, Leorio takes a step to the side and cranes his head. Kurapika's feet are planted firmly on the ground in an archer's stance as he pulls back another arrow. "Now go."

"You needn't have followed me, I had everything under control."

"Could have fooled me," Kurapika says, and his mouth twists into a snarl.

_Go ahead, shoot me,_ Pietro croons, _That's all you know how to do anyway, isn't it? I'm sure your mother would-_

With a _twang!_ Kurapika releases. The arrow cuts through the air and strikes true, in the doppelganger's throat.

"Don't look," Kurapika warns. But Leorio doesn't want to turn his eyes away. He watches Pietro's scrawny hands grasping for the arrow shaft, trembling. The specter's skin blisters and peels away, consumed by a cold blue glow that spreads from within and like embers, the thing collapses into itself until only ashes remain.

A heartbeat passes.

"I told you-"

"I knew it wasn't him." Leorio interrupts. He takes off his glasses to rub at his eyes. He feels… empty. Useless.

"Then what you did was twice as stupid."

"Hey now-" He tries to protest, but Kurapika is already turning back. Leorio huffs and kicks up some dust. What a shitty night. Afternoon. Day. And it gets worse as a thought strikes Leorio. He rushes after his traveling companion. "Oi, Kurapika. Wait up!"

 

_How cruel you've become. To kill this boy in front of your friend's eyes. Have you lost all sense of pity?_ The voice of Kurapika's father echoes, like he is speaking from the depths of a well or a cave. Kurapika can almost picture his disappointed look too.

_He must have been important to Leorio,_ Kurapika's mother chimes in. He clenches his teeth and fists and marches on.

"Kurapika!" Leorio whines and huffs as he falls in line behind Kurapika, who refuses to slow his step. "Hey, I gotta ask... how much of that conversation did you overhear before you stepped in? Because I, um, I might need to clarify a few things."

"I didn't hear anything," he says, briskly.

_We did not raise you to be a liar,_ his mother scolds, and it takes all that Kurapika has not to burst into flame then and there. He half-wishes that the woods would sent him his own specters too, something tangible that he can destroy to make it go away. And then he slows as he wonders if their illusions would be modeled after their moment of death, if at any moment, he'd start to smell the stench of singed hair-

_'Don't you dare,'_ he thinks although the warning is both aimed at the woods and at himself. _'If you show me my parents, I will burn this whole place down until there's nothing left but coal and ashes and acid. You know I can.'_

And then he is alone in his head. Kurapika rubs the skin on his chest, but it doesn't ease the pressure on his sternum.

"I thought I knew all the tricks that the woods can pull. That's why I-"

"Left camp and exposed yourself to danger?", Kurapika finished. "And for what?"

"You don't understand-"

"I don't?", Kurapika challenges and spins around. He puts his hand against Leorio's chest and gives him a shove, just hard enough to make him flinch. "Like, what, you're the only one who truly knows sorrow and loss? Tell me, was it really worth to let yourself be insulted and mocked by this thing for a few minutes of play pretend? Or did it just cause you more pain than before?"

"I-", Leorio says and his face turns dark like a plum. Kurapika clenches his fists so hard that his nails dig into his palm. He can taste the fight like a charge in the air, a tension before the storm. He itches for it, for something to pour all his boiling fury into.

But Leorio throws his hands in the air and shouts: "Fine! You're right! I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot and you should have just left me to deal with that on my own instead of leaving Lady Alluka behind unprotected. But no, you had to run after me because you still don't trust me to get anything right."

His words boomed underneath the high canopy of the woods, and Kurapika raised his voice to match.

"I ran after you because you were in danger and she was not!"

"But I'm expendable!"

Kurapika claws his hands in the front of Leorio's shirt and pulls him down until their foreheads almost touch. "Oh really? Then why haven't we left you back at the castle to take the fall for our escape before you even knew a lick of this plan?"

"Um,” Leorio says, confused. “You needed someone to show you the way out?"

"You have to be the daftest, most stubborn fool I have ever met!" Kurapika snarls with frustration. He had half a mind to slam his forehead into Leorio's, if he wasn't so sure that the butler's head was filled with solid granite. "I can't believe I vouched for you in front of the prince."

"You... did?"

"Yes, because I counted on you to be a reliable and loyal ally, but you're starting to make me regret it. So pull yourself together because we need you."

"We?", Leorio echoed and points at his face. " _You_ need me?"

Kurapika lets go, far too quickly. "This group needs you. I can protect Lady Alluka from physical harm but she needs someone to provide emotional support, too. Someone who makes her feel safe. I can't be that person."

A screech tears through the forest and Kurapika lifts his head, searching the sky for the slender shadow of a wyvern. All he finds is rustling darkness.

Leorio blanches. "Shit. Alluka."

He pushes forward and takes Kurapika's hand as he breaks into a sprint.

Gnarled trees fly by and in their haste, Kurapika cannot pay attention to where he puts his feet. He bruises his soles upon stones and roots, tears holes in his pants and drenches his toes in warm mulch. But he doesn't alert Leorio of his situation or let go of his hand. Leorio is too busy shouting for Alluka to notice anything amiss and so they press on, every step a new flavor of pain. Until they reach the firm cobblestones of the stone bridges.

They see the beast - part of it - before they even reach their camp. All that Kurapika can make out is a plump, blueish-gray form with two legs as thick as tree trunks. Its massive feet have left a mess of their camp; their blankets and personal belongings are scattered, and a big stain of soot and ash is all that remains of their fireplace. The horses whinny in terror and try to escape, but their reigns are fastened tightly. Bucking up against their restraints, they look like dancers.

A flat, reptilian snout lowers over the bedrolls, hissing menacingly. Leorio comes to a skidding halt; he cranes his neck, taking in the creature in its entirety. Kurapika’s attention lingers on its stubby arms and the wyvern-like shape of its head, upon which a pair of golden antlers thrones.

"Oh shit," Leorio curses, with a lot of emotion.

"This is a dragon," Kurapika breathes. "A real dragon." But how? No one had seen a living dragon in more than a century now.

“Never mind that,” Leorio says, “we should worry about what it’s hissing at. Look!” He points to something to the left, and Kurapika strains his eyes to recognize the greenish-grayish shapes moving among the ash-colored trees.

_Faceless._

Five, no, six of them.

Kurapika has seen Faceless before, small groups of stragglers that have somehow found their way across the border, but he has rarely engaged in combat with them. Blunt force or deadly precision are required to kill one of them and they could do great harm to the hollow bones of a kinshi. He usually made sure to keep out of range of their heavy swinging fists.

Slowly, they stumble forward.

Kurapika’s eyes dart frantically over the scene; from the Faceless to the dragon to the horses, he cannot see the princess anywhere. He can only pray that she is hiding somewhere safe.

Then the first Faceless charges forward and pummels its heavy fist into the dragon’s leg. The creature wails with pain and tumbles a step backwards. Next to Kurapika, Leorio screams too.

“Leorio, what-” Kurapika breaks off at the sight of Leorio’s anguished face. _‘What is going on?’_

The rest of the Faceless slows a little. Four of them change direction, but the fifth marches on and brings one of his chains down on the beast.

With a flick of his wrist, Leorio lets his daggers slip into his hands and sprints, ignoring Kurapika’s call of attention. Like a dancer, he dodges past the Faceless, striking arms mid-swing when the opportunity arises. One, two, three - the fourth misses his face only by an inch.

Leorio lets his weapons fly - the blades hum through the air, striking the fifth Faceless right between the shoulders and the Sixth in the arm. They gargle and roar, grabbing blindly for the pain. One of them reaches the hilt that protrudes from his bicep and tears it out. He lets the knife clatter to the ground. Meanwhile the other struggles in vain, turning around and around like a confused dog.

And now Leorio is stuck unarmed between two fractions of their enemies and Kurapika has no words for how stupid this maneuver was. He whistles, to catch the monsters’ attention and spans his bow. Takes a deep breath.

Kurapika sends a flame across the length of the arrow, setting it ablaze, and releases.

The arrow strikes the Faceless’ mask in the center if the hole near the left eye. His target howls with pain and fury; it claws at its mask like a feral beast. The leather restraints snap; mask and shaft are torn away, revealing that which his enemy should not possess.

A curved long nose, rather pointy. A mouth that stretches too far and eyes of a murky white color - well, _one_ eye, as the left has been reduced to a dark hollow from which a black ichor flows. An impish visage, nothing so grotesquely human after all.

Kurapika draws another arrow and this time, he aims for the forehead. The arrow sinks into the crease between the brows, and the Faceless freezes, slumps- and falls.

 

Three enemies ahead, Leorio lowers his head and bends his back, as if preparing to jump or sprint, caught in an awkward stalemate with one bleeding Faceless. The other fiend is still spinning and throwing its arms to its back, a mad dance to chase the knife protruding between its shoulder blades.

Leorio ponders his chances. And makes a choice.

He draws his shoulders up and dashes ahead, ahead - and like a hare, takes a sharp turn to the side, driving his balled fist into the spinning Faceless. Right into its firm, protruding belly.

The Faceless stops flailing. And looks right at him.

“Shit.”

 

Leorio’s cursing is just loud enough for Kurapika to catch. He aims higher now, conscious of the earth’s pull on all things tangible - but as soon as the arrow starts its arc through the air, he knows the force of the string will not carry it far enough. The tip hits he stone bridge a few paces away from Leorio’s feet, who turns at the noise… and catches a swing to his lower back.

“No!”

Kurapika’s stifled scream is drowned out by a roar as the dragon lowers its snout and bares its teeth. It’s beady black eyes widen. Not a puff of smoke escapes the dragon’s maw, yet Kurapika can feel the skin at the back of his neck rise.

The offending Faceless freezes. The fiend seems to shrink in on itself and wrinkles as it does. Wrinkles become folds in ways that nothing alive _ought_ to fold… and the Faceless implodes in a black cloud.

“What in all the god’s names-”

But there is no time for prayers.

Leorio struggles to pull himself up. His hands are shaking; his glance is unsteady. There are four enemies yet left to sense his weakness and prey on him.

Kurapika slings the bow over his shoulder and starts to run, calling fire to his palms, teasing the flames into balls. And when he thrusts his hands forward, they leap and set the two nearest Faceless ablaze. The flames travel along the leather harness, licking greedily at the skin until it blisters and boils.

Kurapika takes no delight in this destruction. He cares only for breaking through the enemy lines to reach Leorio, foolish, vulnerable Leorio who keeps thrusting himself into great danger.

But as he dashes past the Faceless that groan and tumble in their agony, he breathes in the stench of burning flesh, and trips back into that day.

The creature’s screams turn into the screams of his parents, his people. Old panic pierces his chest and cuts his breath short, it ties his tongue, and he breaks into a cold sweat.

A splashing noise behind him. Water hits his bare feet as the Faceless topple into the black waters. He hears two heavy plunges, then nothing. Still, their stench remains, scratching his throat.

 

The Faceless close to Leorio comes closer still, head swinging from side to side, in search of a cause for its companion’s demise. Precariously, Leorio raises himself into a crouch. His left hand, balled to a fist, is turning white with frost as he summons his magic, every fiber of his being tense with wanting and focusing. And inch by slow inch, a shard of ice grows between his fingers as clear and sharp as glass.

He pushes his body forward and strikes, quick as a viper. The ice pick buries deep into the Faceless’ chest.

The Faceless shudders. Leorio feels the tremor as he is slumped against his enemy’s massive form, he hears the rattling of lungs that fail to unfold. One more rasping breath; the body sways and Leorio with it for his fingers still stick to the weapon they made. Taking a step backward, he tries to pry and tear them free, tries to coax warmth back into his hand, but as he pulls, the Faceless is pulled along. It threatens to fall-

Before it does, the dragon’s maw closes around its head. The bones of the neck break under her teeth and the Faceless finally grows limp.

One enemy remains.

 

Kurapika’s throat is sore, his hands tremble as he picks up the iron bow again. His vision fails him, as he is hit by a wave of vertigo. He can’t focus like this, with his chest feeling like it is being crushed and the urgent flutter underneath his clavicle that tells him he is going to be sick-

The Faceless is coming for him.

A big target, growing with every step. Kurapika sacrifices aim for the sake of speed. He draws and releases, draws and releases. Three steps closing between them, three arrows sinking into the protruding soft belly before the Faceless begins to slow. A fourth yields a stagger.

The fifth arrow slips through Kurapika’s shaking fingers and he can no longer fight the rising pressure in his throat. He ducks away, falling to his knees at the edge of the bridge and heaves into the murky water. His stomach yields little but sour brew that makes his throat burn. Even when he is empty, Kurapika keeps retching dryly, until his eyes swim with tears and his body grows cold.

The stones under his fingers quake with the collapse of the last Faceless.

So it is done. And there is nothing left to do but to collect himself, wipe his eyes and steady himself.

Beneath him, the pool of water smooths. A face stares back at him, pale and gaunt.

Only after a heartbeat does he realize it is not his own.

 

At last the ice on Leorio’s fingers melts and he rolls off the dead Faceless. As he comes to his feet, he takes a gasping breath and shudders with disgust. Wipes his numb hand on his shirtsleeve as if it had been soiled. “Well, that was a _mess_ ,” he groans. 

The dragon bends her neck low and presses her forehead against Leorio’s side who leans into the touch, rubbing her scales with affection. “Hey, little bird. Are you alright? I’m sorry you had to wake up to this, all alone. That must’ve been scary.”

She shakes her head and speaks with a voice like smoke and distant thunder. “ _I heard they were coming. I heard and I tried to wake Alluka but I couldn’t find her dreams._ ”

“I gave her something so she could sleep. I didn’t think- I didn’t mean to leave you alone, love, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

When she says his name it’s like a rumble, and she nudges him to show that he is forgiven. “ _Alluka said we’d go somewhere nice to see the cherry blossoms. But these are not cherry trees. And this is a_ very bad _place._ ” She sounds both awe-struck and afraid as she stares at him, wide-eyed like a child.

“I know, poppet. We’ll be leaving soon, but it’s gonna take a while to get there. Are you sure you don’t need a heal? They punched you-”

“ _Your friend will need it more. He smells like blood and sickness.”_

“My… ?”

And then he remembers with white-hot urgency. _Kurapika_.

Leorio whirls around.

Death has drained all color from her, spinning the gold of her hair to silver. Ash is her skin and her mouth (she, who always laughed a little too loud), and her lively brown eyes have clouded over to a milky white. But despite that she is whole… and that cannot be true, can it?

He has mourned and buried his parents, what remained of them after the fire burned itself out. Bodies too brittle to dress in the proper funeral garb, not that he knew how to make one. What he knew was that soldiers from the capital had arrived to tend to the wounded and the orphans and the dead. That he was lucky to give his parents to the earth himself, to bury them with something that mattered to them. He put his mother’s staff in the grave and the spectacles that his father was always too stubborn to wear, although his eyes had grown weak from all the reading he did.

Kurapika did his best, but it never felt enough.

Not even when he came back as a man grown to plant a magnolia tree.

Yet, after all these years, grief still has its barbs nestled deep inside of him. And it pulls and pulls-

Kurapika thinks that she must be cold, floating in the water like this. He thinks that maybe this is his chance to set right what he could not do as a boy. His heart beats so erratic, his scalp itches with sweat.

He reaches out-

And is yanked back with force. Kurapika screams and kicks, wrestling with his assailant’s iron grip because he cannot be parted from her again, not when he just found her. He throws the other off balance, who falls backward on his ass with a groan, but does not let go.

“Stop it, I’m trying to save your life, you idiot,” Leorio barks in his ear. Kurapika stops thrashing, confused, because he doesn’t need saving.

“My mother-” Kurapika begins, because maybe Leorio doesn’t understand what he is keeping him away from. But a sliver of doubt creeps in. There is something he is supposed to remember, but what?

“Kurapika, it’s not real. Why would your mother be here of all places?”

(Why indeed? How did the water carry her miles and miles from her grave, restoring her to beauty? How did it take hold of her in the first place?)

“But-”

But he wants it so.

“This place is trying to trick you. Remember what I said before we came here?”

_Whatever you do, don’t look at the water._

And the longer he spends away from the black surface, the more he feels like waking from a bad dream, his body jittery, a sour feeling in his mouth, his stomach. And then he sees the ripple on the pool, how the water rises, forming tendrils. Like the arms of a kraken, searching for him.

He sags, and Leorio releases his hold a little. “Why are you barefoot?”, he asks softly.

“I… you didn’t give me time to put on my shoes before you ran off,” Kurapika says as the events of the evening come back into focus. Not that he forgot, but there is a kind of fog over his memories, and he makes himself re-examine. The boy. The little sick-looking mirage that Leorio has followed, taunting him, trying to lure him. What would have happened to him, had he really touched the water?

“I am the worst kind of fool. You warned me. I have seen how the woods tricked you and still I-”

“’S alright. You were exhausted from your fight.”

The fight, the Faceless-

“The princess!”, Kurapika calls out. “Leorio, we need to find her!”

“She’s fine,” Leorio assures. This time when Kurapika struggles in his arms, he lets him go.

They rise on their feet gingerly, each of them slowed down by some pains. “But where _is_ she?”

All that he can see is the wreckage after the fight and the dragon that has crouched down over what is left of their camp, wings anxiously folded at its back. The dragon that Leorio tried to protect.

“What is going on?”

Leorio scratches the back of his head. “I think it is time to introduce you to Nanika.”

Kurapika still feels a shock in his bones and in his chest. He draws his arms around his body as they approach the plump dragon, but Leorio strides ahead eagerly. He coos at the large wyrm, calls it - her - sweet things as if she were just a little child. A hatchling, perhaps. Nanika nuzzles the butler and blows rings of smoke at him through her nostrils, but her beady eyes settle on Kurapika with apprehension.

Who hangs his head low and minds not to stare, as eye-contact is a sign of aggression among many kind of animals, a lesson he was taught when he was first introduced to the kinshi. Leorio does not notice, too busy is he rubbing Nanika’s snout.

“Say hello to Kurapika, love,” he whispers in Nohrish and to Kurapika’s horror, the dragon _speaks_.

“Hello, Pika-Pika,” she says, and although her voice booms deeply, she does sound young.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” he replies - in Nohrish too - and bows proper.

Leorio makes a confused noise and his mouth twists into the shape of an _O_ , but he catches himself. Plenty of Hoshidans speak the Nohrish. Scholars, diplomats, merchants, nobles… and spies.

Leorio clears his throat. “The bad people are gone, Nanika, don’t you think it’s time to turn back?”, he suggests.

Nanika jabs her snout in Kurapika’s direction. “But _he_ will see.”

“He has already seen _you_ , poppet. And he’s here to protect us. It’s safe to show him.”

She seems to consider this for a moment, then flicks her tongue like a snake. “Alright.”

Nanika closes her big black eyes, and she starts to glow. Stronger and stronger, until it hurts to look at her. And then her body shrinks and shifts. The dragon molds into the shape of a person and as the glow of the transformation fades, a girl slumps into Leorio's waiting arms. He holds her tight.

"I've got you, little one," he whispers softly into her black hair, but it is Kurapika is eyes rest on. There is worry and a plea in the butler’s gaze. For the girl in his arms is Alluka. And when she peeks over Leorio's shoulder, her eyes are still black as a bird's.

The princess of Nohr is a manakete - a dragon walking in human skin.

Their mission just became infinitely more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heya! I would like to take the time to give a huge shoutout to my artists this year mangaabyss and craziephase! I had to wait because one of the artworks is based on this very chapter, so now that we have reached this point, go check them out:
> 
> https://mangaabyss.tumblr.com/post/185969810683/hey-guys-this-is-my-piece-for-2019-hxh-big-bang
> 
> https://craziephase.tumblr.com/post/185794362405/hxhbb19-this-is-the-drawing-for-the-second-fic#notes


	8. To Be Loved

They gather all that was scattered and move camp father ahead to a less bloody spot - which is to say that Kurapika does most of the gathering and the carrying while Leorio keeps his arm around Alluka/Nanika and sings her songs in his soft, rumbling voice. He wraps her in blankets and strokes her hair as if she were a child. There is something so intimate about the way they whisper to each other that Kurapika feels like an intruder, a stranger. 

He takes a moment to excuse himself. 

Ignoring the angry hot pulse of pain from his feet, he roams the perimeter of their camp, looking for firewood. He lets a flame dance upon his knuckles to light his way. As it rises and falls, rises and falls, he wonders about the manakete princess’ other name.  _ Nanika _ . It means ‘something’ in Hoshidan. Queen Kikyo is of Hoshidan blood, but no parent with half a regard for a child would name them  _ nanika _ . A moniker, then?

The princess’ circumstances explain why the royal family makes such a secret of their only daughter, but it raises the question if the King or his sons are manaketes too. The Zoldycks are descendants of one of the first dragons who founded their countries so many centuries ago. They carry the blood of the Dusk Dragon, just as the Dawn Dragon’s blood runs in the veins of the Freecss’ dynasty. Yet in his studies of the history of Hoshidan’s rulers, Kurapika has never found so much as a hint that one of Gon’s and Mito’s ancestors could take the shape of a dragon.

So what is the meaning of this?

 

Kurapika does not return until Leorio stops singing his lullabies. He takes his time, plucking pieces of bark as he ambles back to camp. When he arrives and gets on his knees to drop his wood as quietly as possible, Alluka/Nanika has sunk against Leorio's chest, fast asleep once more. And it seems like Leorio would follow her example shortly: he blinks with intention, fighting the heavy pull of exhaustion. His dark eyes stare blankly ahead at the pile; he does not flinch when Kurapika puts a flickering seed among the wood, which burns through the branches greedily. Sap sizzles and pops and the air fills with a sharp herbal scent.

"You used fire against the Faceless too," Leorio mumbles. Blinks once more. And he stretches his mouth to a painful yawn. "But you’re not carrying a tome. So you can just  _ do _ that, huh?"

Kurapika closes his eyes and basks in the heat of the flames. Breathes in. Breathes out. He does not dignify the obvious with an answer, but he suspects that Leorio has more questions. Everyone responds to Kurapika’s magic the same. And it’s never pleasant.

"Alright," Leorio says a little gruffly. Kurapika can hear him shift in his blankets. "Perfect. With my ice magic and your fire, we might actually be able to get some clean water without using up our supplies. You still need to wash that muck off your feet and I'd rather you didn't use that black swamp brew to do it."

_ 'That's all?' _ , he wants to ask, although Kurapika appreciates the concern for his well-being.

They speak little as they set to work. Leorio grows sheets of ice on his skin, leeching from the humidity around them. He breaks them off into the biggest pot they have. Kurapika melts the ice, brings the water to a boil and lets it cool again. They repeat their tasks, four, five times before Leorio decides they have enough water to work with.

Kurapika nods. He studies Leorio's weary face in the fickle campfire light, the furrow of his brow, how his beautiful lips are parted slightly in concentration. This will be the second time now that he allows this man to tend to his sore feet.

Kurapika is particular about being touched. He prefers the somber air of the monks and shrine maidens who can heal with a soft spoken word over the harsh prodding of the court medics. But he knows Leorio to be gentle. And if he is honest, he enjoys the certainty with which Leorio reaches out, the steady press of fingers around his ankles. Unafraid. Because this is something he knows and to him, Kurapika is just a patient like any other. Not a prince. Not a monster.

"When this is done, I want you to sleep," Kurapika says, and blames it on his own weariness that the words sound too much like a plea. "I'll keep watch for the rest of the night."

"It might be afternoon, actually," Leorio points out as he retrieves a piece of pumice from his bundle and starts to brush away the worst of the dried muck from Kurapika's skin. "And you need sleep just as much as I do."

"I will not find rest as long as we are in these woods."

Leorio makes an absent-minded noise. He keeps tilting Kurapika's foot a little to one side, then the other, to catch all angles. Every now and then, he puts the stone down and flexes his fingers. "Tell me if I'm being too rough. My hands are still a bit numb."

"Isn't it bothersome, to be cold all the time?", Kurapika asks and wiggles his toes to loosen more of the dirt between them. There are other, more important things to discuss, but he knows that as soon as he breaches that topic, all the ease between them will disappear. So he grants both of them some more time.

"I'm not, actually. I barely feel the cold at all. But I can't bear to touch anything too warm right after I worked my magic. Feels like pins and needles. Why? Are  _ you _ feeling too hot all the time? Don't tell me you can burn yourself with your own flames."

Leorio's eyes settle on Kurapika's hands who bear the telltale calluses and scars of an archer, but no traces of burns, recent or past.

"Well, no. But I can warm myself up when I'm cold. I do it all the time when I'm in the air. Nothing drains you like whipping winds."

Leorio chuckles and Kurapika demands to know what’s so funny about that.

"I was just thinking that if the sky's already too cold for you, you would not last very long in my- in the village where I was born."

Kurapika wrinkles his nose in disdain. He may abhor the cold and takes no joy in the rare occasion of winter snow, but he also does not appreciate the hidden implication that he is something soft and spoiled. "It’s true, I’ve never known frost. But I grew up in the arid borderlands of Hoshido, where the wells run deep to reach any water at all. And I was still cold in the nights because I was  _ hungry _ .”

What he remembers most is the dry, hard soil that refused to yield to any attempts of making it fertile land. The empty scar that has once been a riverbed, before the flow of the river had been redirected to lead towards the heart of the country, to keep the rich cities lush and thriving. He remembers the quarrels with the village elder after each meager harvest, the people insisting they should accept the old King's offer to find a new settlement away from the border, where the ground has not been thrice burnt by wyvern breath. Remembers how the elder's answer had been the same, year after year.

_ This is the land of our fathers and forefathers. And what little gifts it may bring, it is still ours. The king has no claim on it. _

Leorio looks up, and the glint of the fire catches in his eyes. "Say... what became of your people? You're a member of the fire tribe, right? I was taught that they all perished in the battle that started the war but you're, well, here. Alive."

"That was no battle," Kurapika spits. "A battle is fought by soldiers, not unarmed farmers, carpenters, merchants. Not by spouses and children and monks. This was a slaughter."

Leorio's hands halt. Kurapika’s anger does not.

"They hired a group of mercenaries to creep into our village and slit the throats of every man who seemed capable of fighting. Then they set fire to the houses and waited for us to scramble out and try to save our homes. And when everyone was distracted, that's when the battalion marched in." Kurapika takes a shaky breath. His skin grows hot with anger.

"They struck us down without warning and claimed our land, just to push the border a little bit. Just for the sake of their king's ego. And then, when they realized that the ground was hard and barely fertile and that they had chased away all the animals that we kept, they ran at the glimpse of the first Hoshidan soldier on the horizon. They refused to spill their  _ own _ blood for barren land."

"I'm sorry."

Kurapika huffs. "It was not your crime."

"I mean for bringing it up. Should've realized you wouldn't have any pleasant memories of that time." Leorio's thumb circles over the spot underneath his ankle. Is it a nervous gesture or a clumsy attempt at sympathy, at comforting?

(And does it matter?)

"We need to to talk about the Princess," Kurapika says. He used to pride himself on diplomatic skills, but he was in no mood to act like he didn't want to change the subject.

Leorio clears his throat. He puts aside the pumice stone and takes a piece of cloth from his bundle which he dips into the pot until it is properly soaked, then lowers it over Kurapika's foot and squeezes tightly.

"The thing is," he starts, as languidly as the lukewarm droplets that hit Kurapika's arch, "If you're looking for an explanation, I don't have one. No one has. It just... happens. When she is in distress and overcome with emotion, when she is afraid... The king and the queen, they summoned scholars to their court, curse breakers, seers, all to find out what could be causing the transformations. Some questioned the lineage of the queen, presumed her a manakete-”

At that, Kurapika looks up. So the Nohrians are afraid of the hidden dragonfolk. Which makes it unlikely that the Zoldycks are the key to this mystery.

“-and let’s just say, King Silva did not appreciate that at all. Threatened to cut out the tongue of any person who dared to repeat the accusation. One of the scholars, a historian, suggested that her... ailment might be a result of her royal blood. Since both the Hoshidan and the Nohian Royal families descend from the first dragons, the children of Queen Kikyo and King Silva all carry the blood of the Dusk Dragon and the Dawn Dragon mixed together. Crossing the blood lines… well, the princes all have a strong talent for magic, so there’s that. But none of them ever  _ turned _ . And it doesn’t explain why Nanika exists.”

“What do you mean?”

Leorio looks up. “There are two of them. Two girls sharing one body. I know this doesn't make sense, but this is how it is. And you will notice it, once you spend more time with them. Nanika is more comfortable with their dragonskin, and she acts more of a child than Alluka. They don't have the same memories or experiences. Nanika gets frightened a lot easier because she has seen even less of the world. But it took us a long time to figure it out. And by us I mean the staff, because her parents didn’t want to see any of that."

Leorio brushes the cloth carefully over Kurapika's sole. Kurapika winces.

"You have quite a few cuts here."

"Go on," Kurapika presses, his face twisted to a grimace. He doesn’t specify if he’s talking about the tale or the treatment, and Leorio continues with both.

"The princess first transformed when she was eleven years old, but long before that... She was a quiet child. A strange child. Not unhappy, no, she had plenty of affection to give, but she was strong.  _ Too _ strong. She kept breaking things, she kept hurting her maids while she was playing and on top of that, she sometimes had, uh, strange cravings."

Kurapika raises a brow. "Strange how?"

Leorio picks up a roll of gauze and starts wrapping Kurapika's foot. "She would sneak out in the middle of the night to steal raw liver from the pantry. She'd bite her own nails until they were bloody and then she would ask others if she could have their nails to chew on. She'd suck on little stones like they were hard candy. I had to get her ice whenever her gums would hurt. Normal ice, I mean,” Leorio clarifies, as if it was necessary. “Her maids became afraid of her. They tried to spend as little time as possible around her; they began to speak of her in whispers, like she was a menace. And I wish that they had been more subtle about it, for her sake, but..." Leorio's brows knit together in confused anger as he relived his memories. "Alluka took their rejection pretty hard. She grew quiet, withdrawn. Her cravings got worse. And when she kept talking to herself, we blamed it on her being lonely. And then she started telling us about Nanika, and we all assumed she was a make-believe friend. We couldn't have been further from the truth."

"I imagine that this contributes to the king and queen keeping quiet about having a daughter," Kurapika says, although not unkindly.

Leorio tucks in the end of the gauze and puts down Kurapika's foot. His face grows dark. "Among other things."

Kurapika waits for him to elaborate. He doesn't.

Leorio closes his eyes and and his shoulders rise and fall with a deep sigh. "I wish Canary had breathed a word to me about this escape plan. I'm sure she had a whole protocol for how to keep Nanika calm in crowded areas, how to prevent her from slipping into her dragonskin. The last thing we need is to draw attention to us, and that's gonna be impossible if the princess might turn at any given moment."

"So we avoid the towns for as long as we can," Kurapika concludes. He feels like Leorio is not giving himself enough credit. Is he not aware with how much love and trust she leans against him? Does it count for nothing that he is ready to throw himself in the line of danger if it means keeping her from harm?

Kurapika is reminded then of the noise of small feet rushing over tatami mats at dangerous speed, the squeal with which Woble would pounce on him. A girl unrestrained, unmarked by distrust. How great and terrifying to be loved by a child, to be her protector, her teacher, her friend. He is swept up by a wave of homesickness so fierce that he grabs for Leorio's wrist to keep steady.

"Kurapika?"

Leorio's skin is still cold, so cold. So tempting to take hold of his hands and breathe some warmth into them.

But he shakes his head. How foolish to seek one comfort in hungering for another. How pitiful to fall prey to his loneliness at all. "You mustn't doubt yourself. Not when she looks up to you for guidance. No matter how much you feel like faltering, don't let her see. Right now, you're all she has."

"That's not reassuring at all!", Leorio complains, but he bursts into a breathy kind of laughter that softens his cheeks and lights up his face. It takes Kurapika by force. Mouth half parted in wonder, he forgets to move, to breathe. And has to embrace that he  _ is _ weak, and pitiful, starving for this fond attention. When Leorio speaks again, Kurapika wants to shroud himself in the sound of his voice. "Still. Thank you. You know, I've never met someone who is as bristly in his kindness as you are."

_ I'm not kind _ , Kurapika wants to insist once more.

He  _ wants _ , with all the terrible urgency of an itch and yet, he cannot tell what he is wanting for. This isn't going anywhere. This cannot go anywhere. In this life of his there is no room for this feeling that echoes so loudly through his bones.

He closes his eyes and prays for it to ebb while Leorio chatters delightedly on. Keeps dangerously still as his other foot is raised and brushed and rinsed. The pain becomes an anchor tethering him to the mundane. He will persist.

 

Alluka wakes to darkness and the smell of smoke. She can feel Nanika dreaming, her sister's restlessness brushing against the corners of her mind. The campfire has collapsed to ash and embers, and she has to strain her eyes to make out a familiar silhouette among the shadows. She finds Leorio by the trail of his soft snoring, all limbs sprawled out on two bedrolls. A guardian looms over her sleeping butler, sitting cross-legged and inanimate. He might be mistaken for a statue, if not for the red glow in his eyes.

"Milady," he says, keeping his voice low, so as not to disturb the sleeper. "I have a request."

Alluka prods Nanika, just a little mental nudge, but her sister does not stir. She looks to Leorio for guidance, as if she could wake him by wishing alone. At last she rises and nods despite the nagging sense of unease. Kurapika may be an ally but he is a stranger, too. And she is a princess, holding little power of her own. Having no worth to her family, not even as a bargaining chip for a political marriage, due to her... circumstances.

"May this request wait until Leorio wakes? If it is something that concerns our little party, then I think all members should have a say in it."

"I am afraid not."

Alluka beckons him to follow her to where the horses were tethered, clutching tightly to her skirts. This way, her shaking hands cannot betray her, for she knows better than to show fear in front of a man who does not take no for an answer. She knows better than to deny him outright.

The horses whinny and shy from her touch.

With a frown, Alluka leaves them be and takes in Kurapika who follows her with precarious steps. "So? What is it that you'd like to speak to me about?"

"It's about Leorio. I don't suppose you or your brother told him about my position within the royal family, have you?"

"Were we supposed to?" she asks, perhaps a little to sharply. And then she notices Kurapika’s wrapped up feet. When did he injure himself?

"No, not at all. In fact, I am asking for your silence on the matter, at least until the end of our journey."

"May I ask why?", Alluka says, and this time, she does not try to hide her dismay. Her brother would always tell her to consider what a person might gain from their requests. ‘ _ Ask them, and you will receive an answer that may be true to some part, but mostly, it will be an answer that will reflect on how they want to portray themselves.’ _

"I don't want to be treated favorably. He is a butler; it is in his nature to serve. If he knew that I am a prince, he would have insisted on continuing his watch and letting me sleep. But we cannot expect only one person to shoulder the burden of this journey. Now, I will not ask Milady to take a share in the work, for I believe that the journey will be taxing enough for you. But I am a noble by title only. I want to pull my weight. But i reckon that if Leorio knew, he would not let me, and we don't have the time to spare on discussions."

Alluka has to admit that Kurapika's understanding of the situation is accurate. It’s not unusual for Leorio to take the bigger share of the work, to help out his peers even if he has plenty of chores of his own. Leaving him in the dark about Kurapika's social rank would mean a more efficient distribution of resources indeed. And as far as she can tell, the request is a selfless one, or at the very least purely goal-focused. But it means that she will have to lie to Leorio, again.

"I will keep your secret," she says, "for as long as it does not harm our journey."

To her surprise, Kurapika bows. "Thank you, Milady. Now, if you would be so kind, I would like to get some rest myself. It has been a long, tiring... day." He settles clumsily on that last word and Alluka does not blame him. It feels like they have been here for much longer than… what, twelve hours?.

"Did something happen while I was asleep?"

He smiles, polite but distant. "I suggest that you hold on to this question until Leorio is awake."

And with that, he excuses himself and hobbles back to his bedstead.

 

* * *

 

In Hoshido, the moon hangs in the sky like a white-hot glowing coin; its light turns the snow on the mountains to sparkling sugar. It spills into a little room at the top of an inn that is nearly deserted and paints the walls a darker blue. And it falls gently on two women, an arm's length of space between their futon. Neither of them sleeping, neither of them wanting to admit they're awake. But it is that space that keeps Mito from slipping into slumber.

 

There has not been space between their bedsteads before, not from the moment they came into this inn. Oito made sure to be within reach. Oito also made sure to be out of reach tonight. She lies on her stomach, face turned away from Mito. She is still, so still, which is why Mito can tell that Oito is awake.

She hates this new divide, hates it with every stubborn inch of her body. It isn't right.

_ 'Come back,' _ she wants to say, as if Oito didn't retreat from her on purpose. And her reason... Mito can not quite believe it herself, even if the words have etched into her mind. But surely there must be another meaning to them? Mito knows her body well; she has no romantic misconceptions about its shape. She does not possess the beauty that would inspire poems, she is not enticing like other women, whose slender necks and voluptuous hips remind her of a shamisen. Nor are her wits sharp as a blade or nearly as quick. And she is not gentle, or delicate like a flower.

No, there was no reason for anybody to yearn for her or woo her, if she did not have a kingdom to her name.

And yet there lies Oito, withdrawn now but still carrying her heart on her wrist. Who has chosen to slip away lest her eyes betray her. But oh, what a joke! For there was nothing as humbling and as rewarding as being the subject of Oito’s most ardent attention, to taste the faith she has in you even on your weakest day.

So where do they go from here? Are they supposed to return to the palace and resume their duties as if nothing had changed? As if their stay had not changed them?

She cannot. She will not.

Mito stretches her toes with impatience and rolls over to the side, peering at the other women’s back as if to challenge her to turn around by force of will alone. “I meant it,” she whispers into the darkness and a stir ripples through the sea of curls as Oito raises her head, throwing a quick glance over her shoulder.

“Pardon?”

“When I said I would not deny you anything, I meant it. And I know you must have had your reasons for getting angry with me, but I stand by my word. No request from you could be preposterous. And I… I want to know what it is that you long for and if I could make it true. Because you deserve nothing less.”

Oito sighs. She rolls onto her stomach and stretches her arms out like a cat before folding them underneath her chin. And after a long pause she breathes a single word.

“No.”

“No?”, Mito repeats.

“I will ask for nothing, unless you promise me to deny me. I have seen too many good women in my life wearing themselves thin as they let others take advantage of their kindness. So, no, I will not take anything from you that was not given willingly.” She puffs up her cheeks like a child and blows a curl out of her face. “Mito-san, where is this coming from? Why are you so intent on showering me in gifts once of a sudden? I want no rewards, I thought I made myself clear on that.”

That she did. And Mito cannot not accept that any more than being kept at arm's length. She almost feels like the two things are connected. That if she can just find the right gift, the right reward, Oito might come back to her side. Of course, this is a child’s logic. And yet she feels her worries spilling out of her.

“Because I need to know. I want to understand. You insist that being near me is painful for you and I want to remedy that for I do not want to lose you. Knowing you has been a pleasure. But at the same time you act like there is nothing I could offer to you, nothing at all. How can this be true?”

Mito tries so hard to mask the frustration that makes her curl her toes, makes her ball her fists but she cannot tell if she is succeeding. She feels like they are moving in circles, going through variations of the same conversation, and the fault is partly hers. If only she were brave enough to make the leap.

“Mito… do you really need me to spell it out for you?”

“Yes,” Mito begs, with a hunger that makes her dizzy. She needs to hear it. She is tired of tossing with doubt.

Another sigh, shaped by something that sounded just like disappointment. “My dearest friend,” Oito begins and she sits up slowly, crossing her legs underneath her body. Extending her hands towards Mito. “I admire your tenacity like I admire your strength, your honor, your compassion. I have come to care deeply for you and I had hoped you would understand…”

Her eyes fall to the floor and she rakes her hand through her hair. “It is not just my heart that beats for your heart. Even if I were to stay by your side, even if you allowed me to drink in the sight of you, I could not be contend. I… I love you, I truly do, in a way that cannot be sated with my eyes alone. So keep your gifts and your assurances because the only thing I want from you is  _ you _ , all of you. I cannot settle for a compromise, and since I cannot have you-”

“Says who?”

Oito freezes.

Mito gets to her knees clumsily. Her limbs start shaking with a flutter of nerves, but still she skids closer and lets her hands frame Oito’s lovely cheeks.

“I know I am not the best suitor; I have never been taught how to woo a woman, much less a queen. I would gladly lay my whole kingdom to your feet if I didn’t know that such gestures mean nothing to you. But if all it takes is to deliver myself to you, I yield.”

“Mito-san, you can’t-” Oito whispers, yet her protest is half hearted at best. She grasps for Mito’s shoulders. “Do you mean it?”

“I do.”

Oito leans forward until their foreheads touch.

“I do, I do, I do,” Mito chants, like incantating a spell. She is aware then of the heat of the other woman’s breath brushing against her lips, of the desperation with which Oito’s hands travel down to her hips and seize them. Her eyes, black and shimmering.

“But you will promise me to deny me? If my touch displeases you, if my hunger becomes too much for you to bear, you must tell me no.”

“I will,” Mito whispers as she brings up her thumb to touch lips as soft as a rose petal.

But that night, the only words she speaks are her lover’s name and a simple yes. Over and over again, until it becomes a hymn.

_ Yes _ , she nods when Oito asks her for a kiss. Their fingers intertwine as their breath mingles; their lips brush and they meet soft and welcoming. Oito kisses like she debates: fiercely, with a curious tongue and the occasional nip of teeth. But she is slow about it too, deliberate, and Mito quickly learns to take her affections and match them in kind, a conversation more true than anything she ever experienced.

Her head spins, her heart thrums and when her lover guides her down onto the futon, Mito follows her impulse.

_ Yes _ , she shivers when Oito leans back and peels away her robes.

They lie, side by side.

In the moonlight, Oito’s skin shimmers like a pearl. Her scars are invisible, but if Mito is careful enough, she can find the subtle valleys with her fingertips. That is, until her hands are captured, seized, as Oito begins the slow process of teaching Mito how to love her. How to cup her breasts, tenderly at first, testing the weight, then firmer. She is shown where to pinch to make her beloved whimper and squirm until she feels brave enough to try for herself.

She hears her name whispered, giggled, begged.

Mito’s body comes alive with a pulse, the sensation now familiar and welcome, growing louder with every helpless whimper, every stroke of tongue against tongue. What a beautiful thing to be loved! To feel your partner’s desire as if it is your own, to learn the note that your body hums under someone’s gentle stroke.

In the pale moonlight, Mito loses herself in that symphony.


	9. Little Aches

Leorio realizes three important truths at about the same time.

Number One: judging by the sluggishness of his mind and the aches in his limbs, he has slept far longer than necessary without either of his companions feeling the need to wake him. He reckons that it might be morning again - not that there is any way to be certain until they leave the Woods of the Forlorn.

Number Two: The mood in their little camp is tense, to say the least. He finds Alluka and Kurapika withdrawn, occupied with different tasks, purposefully ignoring each other.  _ Charming _ . He checks in on his Ladyship first and is met with all the anger and frustration that two young hearts can muster. It is hard to make out the cause between the hushed ranting and Nanika’s sudden tearful interruptions, both girls trying to get a word in, but eventually Leorio figures out that Alluka and Nanika are fighting. Which is absurd. The girls are never fighting.

But Alluka is shaking, distraught that without her knowing, without her getting a chance to weigh in, Nanika has given one of their most important secrets away. And Nanika? Is trembling with guilt, torn between wanting to hide and letting her tears fall into Leorio’s shirt.

It doesn’t matter, then, that Leorio was the one who explained the situation to Kurapika in detail. It doesn’t matter that their lives had been in danger; Nanika would have had the power to run and keep some of the Faceless at bay without shifting into their other skin. Nanika knew that she was not allowed to turn in front of strangers. But she got frightened and lost control. And now Alluka feels unsafe, exposed, like she has been stripped naked against her will.

Leorio tries his best to console both of them appropriately, but even as he pets Nanika’s head and wipes the tears off Alluka’s cheeks, his mind turns towards the moonless, starless sky. Not long now until the girls’ bimonthly ceremony is due. They have managed to take the copy of the spellbook, but it takes both of them to cast the spells. And they will need a safe, private space to do so, somewhere they can rest. They will be weak and more than ever must they rely on Kurapika’s protection. How much of his support can they secure while telling him as little as possible?

Sooner or later, Leorio will have to address that to Alluka.

Not today. Not as long as the princesses were in discord. But soon.

The third and last important truth: the perspiration on Kurapika’s ashen face does not bode well. Leorio finds his bandages stained. When he sits down to replace them, his suspicions are confirmed: the skin underneath is swollen and warm to the touch, the cuts oozing liquid.

“This is infected,” he says, although Kurapika seems to pay him no mind. The Hoshidan is staring at the fire where the flames burn low, much too low on the kindling. Leorio wonders if Kurapika keeps them restrained to preserve the wood. If so, he had better spend his energy on his recovery. “I’m going to put on an ointment and replace the gauze but it’s important that you rest. I don’t want you up on your feet.”

“You’re joking, right?” Kurapika asks. Beside him, the wood hisses and pops as the flames rise, bringing heat.

“You’re sick. And from the looks of your pallor, I’d wager you’re in a good deal of pain. If this spreads through your flesh-”

“Then heal me,” Kurapika challenges.

“I can’t. I’m not sure how you’re doing things over in Hoshido, but our staves can only mend cuts, not cure disease. If I were to try it on you, I’d just close the skin over the infection and leave little sealed pockets of pus in your sole. No, the wound needs to be drained, kept dry, clean and still.”

But Kurapika remains adamant. He grabs Leorio by the cravat and yanks him closer until there is no escape from his dangerous stare, which would have been terrifying if not for the strain in his voice.

“Leorio, I refuse to be the reason we are trapped in this place. Use whatever treatment you deem necessary, but I will travel. I will not sleep and I will not rest until we have brought a safe distance between us and these woods. Do you understand?”

“You think I wanna see us rot here?”, Leorio hisses. One, two days on this road and it had cost them nothing but misery. But it’s his fault that Kurapika was stumbling around barefoot and the last thing he wants is to cause this man more unnecessary pain. Unfortunately, Leorio gets the impression that Kurapika isn’t going to let any doctorly advice stop him.

“Kurapika, you have been sick with fever not a week ago. I will not let you march in this condition, but-” he adds sharply, before Kurapika can counter, “if you feel well enough, you may be put on horseback. Under one condition. As soon as we reach safe ground, you will follow my every order until I declare you hale again.”

“I’m not sure I agree with your condition.”

“Well that’s too bad, because it’s the only offer you get and if you are half as bright as you appear to be, you’ll see that it’s the best solution for all of us. Now, if you are done being an ass, I’d appreciate if you let go of me. I need to fetch my herbs.”

Kurapika releases his iron clutch and leans back, brows lowered in defiance. He licks his sore lips, considering. “Fine,” he says.

His attitude does not outlast his treatment.

After straightening his ruffled cravat and rummaging through his medicine satchel, Leorio picks up an iodine solution and some fresh gauze and cotton swabs. He drenches the cotton with the tincture, careful not to spill a single drop, and begins the tedious work of cleaning the cuts on Kurapika’s soles.

“This will burn,” Leorio warns. “Tell me if it hurts too much.”

As if either of them had a say in the matter. He makes sure to work the medicine into the cuts properly, clearing out the pus. Kurapika makes no sound. He grows even more ashen. He digs his hands in the blankets of his bedroll as if he meant to tear them apart, but no matter how hard he trembles, he keeps his teeth clenched and does not even whimper.

By the time Leorio applies the gauze, the Hoshidan is drenched in cold sweat and panting heavily.

“Half an hour, then we’ll leave,” Leorio says. “Make sure you’re ready by then. Remember to drink something.” He wipes Kurapika’s brow, hoping it will be enough time for him to recover but not so much that he’d regard it as an act of kindness.

“Do you torment all your patients so?”, Kurapika inquires. His chest heaves, the mage’s garment clings to him like a second skin. If the cause had been less dire, Leorio would have let his eyes linger.

“Only the ones I wish to keep alive.”

 

Even leaving feels like an eternity. Leorio takes the lead, navigating the horse on which his patient is perched so that all Kurapika has to do is hold on while others try to find a path through the treacherous terrain. It also allows Alluka and Nanika some time to think and quarrel as they follow, as long as they do not lose sight of the horse in front of him. But if they argue, they do so silently, in the space where their minds meet.

Kurapika does not seem in the mood for conversation either. He keeps his back straight, his eyes stare hazily ahead.

Leorio hums the roughest, naughtiest tavern songs he can think of, to keep his mind occupied. Beneath his feet pass stone bridges and swampland. The crooked white tree giants become sparse, and young birches grow daring in their midst, displays of startling green that has never been nabbed by a deer’s hunger.

The air loses its sour miasma and the sky regains its face, bruised purple and open. Finally, a bird’s song contests with Leorio’s raunchy ditties. Brambles poke and scratch at his slacks. And he mounts, taking his place in the saddle behind Kurapika.

As he takes one final look back at the naked, bent trees and the darkness they keep, he is reminded of a poem his teachers made him recite by heart. About a father racing through the night, holding tightly onto his fever-sick son as they are chased by ghosts that try to snatch the boy’s soul away. Of course, it’s all just fables and metaphors, waiting to be dissected by the minds of uninspired school boys.

Leorio urges his horse to a hunting gallop until the underbrush blurs beneath their hooves, his mind’s compass set in one direction: forward, ever forward. One ear focused on a second set of hooves echoing behind them.

Until a hand settles weakly on his.

“I think this is far enough,” Kurapika says. “You can breathe now.”

“I still wouldn’t want to stay too long. This part of the forest is crawling with poachers.” But breathe he does. And he brings the horse to a trot. Leorio strains his ears, listening for the familiar rumble of water. “There is a creek that runs through this area, that springs at mount Garou. If we find it, we can follow it upstream for a while and it will lead us to the road to Dia.”

It also means a steady supply of fresh water, maybe even fish. He turns his horse, facing his liege. “Milady, do you think you could-”

Alluka is already dismounting with little regard for her dress. Her limbs grow longer, thicker, straining the fabric of her disguise. Her skin turns blue, her ears become pointed and on the top of her head a pair of golden antler-nubs sprouts.

Kurapika startles; his back bumps against Leorio’s chest. “What in all the god’s names-”

“Alluka is good at walking the line between their two forms. And we could use a dragon’s fine senses now, if not the attention that a full size dragon will draw,” Leorio explains, but even he has to admit that he has never seen her lean into the transformation so much. A slight change of the eyes and ears was all she ever dared at the castle. While Nanika tumbled eagerly through transformation, always committing to their dragonish nature in full, Alluka has learned subtlety, a virtue born out of necessity.

Should he take it as a good sign that she has gone a step further without hesitation? If Leorio is honest, he cannot say how Alluka might feel about her complicated nature. He never bothered to ask, for there was nothing that could be done about it and it seemed rude to draw even more attention to it. He has always hoped that accepting her would be enough - that it would make her feel safe even when her family tried to fit her into a different mold. But now he wondered.

Alluka looks back, a wicked smile upon her lips. Eyes wide, still blue as a cornflower, but her pupils narrow to slits. “I think I can smell the creek. How fast can you keep up?”

“What do you mean, how fast-”

And she leaps. She leaps wide and high, like a doe, and the ground dents where her feet come down hard. The horses whinny with panic. Leorio leans over far too grapple for the reins of Alluka’s mare. He nearly loses balance. Leorio thinks that he can hear laughter carried by the wind and a voice calling: “I’ll fetch you if you lose me!”

By the time he attempts to climb onto her horse’s back, Alluka is out of sight.

“Shit,” he curses with gusto. Then once more for good measure. “Do you think you can ride on your own?”

Kurapika takes up the reigns and stares at them as if they were made from life worms. “I will try,” he says and spurs the horse to a trot. Leorio nods. That has to be good enough.

 

Alluka is chasing the wind. Faster and faster she runs until her muscles burn from the exercise. No obstacle is too high to jump across, no distance seems unreachable. For the first time in her life, she is unstoppable. And there is so much to see, so much to smell! A thicket of wild berries for her to pluck, not quite ripe but just the thing to cook into a tart sauce. A stream rumbling in its bed of gravel, noisy like a dissatisfied old crone.

She picks up a pebble and marks a tree trunk, but does not linger. Why should she? Would it not benefit them more if she explained the terrain a little longer, in the time it takes for her caretakers to catch up? As long as she does not stray too far from the creek, she cannot get lost.

And so she begins mapping in her mind. Downstream the creek starts to broaden and swell until it becomes a waterfall that feeds a clear mountain lake where schools of fish dart to and fro. She finds a cave that may at some point have been home to animals, but now seems abandoned. Its roof is so narrow that she has to crouch to get in, yet when she calls her voice is thrown back with a deep echo, telling her that even though the cave is narrow, it digs deep and far into the ground.

She means to explore the territory upstream next when she turns her eyes skywards and realizes how the light has shifted from the afternoon’s purple to a dark blue. And Nanika, who has been a fleeting presence in the back of her mind until then, begins to pace and fret.

_ They should have caught up with us by now. _

“We did not agree on a place to meet, but I reckon they will rest as soon as they reach the creek. They must’ve seen the signs I left them.”

_ Human eyes are crummy. Alluka, this was a bad idea _ .

Alluka huffs. She can’t help herself, even if she feels bad about it right after. If she is not kind to Nanika, who will be? And she cannot blame her sister for being afraid, since fear is all their parents taught them. Fear and shame.

“I think I can smell the horses. Do you want to take over?”

It’s a peace offering. Will it be enough to let Nanika know that she is no longer upset with her or will she have to spell it out loud? She is not sure. They never fight, so they never make up.

Nanika jumps at the opportunity. Already she is spreading, already Alluka can feel the strength sapping from her bones and the painful restraint of her clothes fading. As soon as Nanika has caught a whiff of the horses, she turns their body back into its most human shape and walks with haste towards the source.

Nanika knows that looking human grants her more hugs. She also knows that she will not be chided for Alluka running away, so the moment Leorio spots her and dismounts, she runs through the creek without heeding the cold water that rushes past her feet. And she slams into him with arms wide open. Nanika drinks in all of his frantic worrying, the forehead kissing and the cheek patting.

Alluka does not complain, nor does she feel jealous because by the time she resurfaces, Leorio’s anger will be a pale shadow of what it used to be. That's what she likes so much about him - his outbursts are driven by impulse, loud and volatile; and then they ebb. Nothing of that cold, lingering disdain that her family is so fond of.

Alluka can be distant, too. Sometimes, it is a comfort to not have to bother with acting, to not be overly aware of one's physical existence. If she wanted, she could watch and listen in on Nanika, but that is disorienting at best.

No, here in the space of her mind she can plan and shape her own world in peace. Here, she belongs to no one but herself.

 

Soon enough, Nanika tells her that Leorio is asking for her. She is not afraid to go. The reprimanding is swift, but fair and not nearly as painful as seeing Leorio distraught. But even that passes, once she tells him about the lake and the waterfall, and about the cave.

“If we cover the entrance, we might all hide in there and not have to worry about standing guard for one night,” she suggests. And so it is done: they tether the horses a few paces away from the cave, so that any wanderer who might stumble upon them would not find their riders, not even by the sound of Leorio snoring.

(“Which I do not,” Leorio assures. Neither Alluka nor Kurapika grace this with a reply.)

Alluka lays out the bedrolls as, much to her surprise, Leorio offers to lift Kurapika off his horse and carry him to the bedstead. Naturally, Kurapika declines.

“You promised,” Leorio remarks.

“I- is this truly necessary?” For the first time, Alluka can hear something like panic in Kurapika’s voice.

“I told you, the less time you spend on your feet, the quicker they will heal. And the impact from dismounting will hurt, a lot. I don’t want you passing out and hitting your head over something like this. Worst case scenario, of course.”

“What about  _ your _ injuries? You took a blow to the back, should you be doing heavy lifting?”

“It wasn’t that bad. Trust me, I have lifted knights in armor before, and folks that were twice the size of you. I know what I can put myself through.”

And with a groan, Kurapika, eldest prince of Hoshido, resigns to his fate and lets himself be whisked away like a bride to be carried over the threshold to her new home. He refuses to look Leorio in the eyes, even as he holds onto the butler’s shoulders for safety. Leorio puts him down gingerly, as though he was fashioned from eggshells, then suggests to go look for some branches to obscure the entrance with. He pulls himself back on his feet in slow, stiff motions and offers a smile that stretches too thin. “I won’t be long,” he promises.

Kurapika shrugs as he glowers into the black mouth of the cave. “Are we sure this is unoccupied?”, he asks as soon as Leorio is out of earshot. “I don’t want anything to nip my toes in the middle of the night.”

“It does not smell like animal anymore,” Alluka says. She picks the bedroll to one side of the cave and regards the space - or lack thereof - to her next neighbor. “I know it’s quite a tight fit, but I thought it would be better than sleeping exposed. You don’t mind, do you? The cave goes in deeper, so we can hide our satchels, but I cannot guarantee for the quality of the air inside.”

“Good thinking,” Kurapika says as he slips under the blanket. Alluka can tell that he’s shivering, and she feels some sympathy for him for having to wear this ridiculous dark mage’s uniform. They are not cut for keeping the body warm (or covered, for that matter) and she suspects that injury must be sapping more of his strength than he lets on.

“Let’s just hope that none of us is an animated sleeper,” he adds. “Say… you have never accidentally transformed in your sleep, have you?”

Alluka huffs. “Of course not.”

“Ah, that’s… good to hear,” Kurapika replies, sensing her anger. Precarious silence follows.

Then, by way of apology he says: “There was a time when I suffered from nightmares so bad that I did not trust myself to sleep in any tent or stable or house, for fear of burning it to ashes. So I would sneak out with my futon and curl up in the stone garden. Forgive me for assuming you would not show the same kind of consideration.”

“You are forgiven. I would have had the same concern if I had just witnessed Nanika stomp around all frightened. But it takes a lot of intention to transform, for me in particular. It has never happened in our sleep.”

“ _ Our? _ Do you and Nanika have the same dreams?”, Kurapika asks and props up his head.

“Sometimes,” Alluka admits. “All the time.” She does and does not want to talk about it. For years she has been needled with questions by strange men trying to uncover the enigma of her existence. Even if Kurapika doesn't look at her as if she is a thing, an anomaly, she has become wary of the interest that others take in her. “When did you stop sleeping in stone gardens?”

“When the queen took me in, and had a new oven built that was large enough to house an eleven year old boy.”

“You are kidding!”

He smiles, smug as a cat. “The staff was terrified of me. They called me the little hearth demon. But they would not complain to the Queen because every morning they found the hearthstones still hot enough to cook rice without needing a single piece of lumber.”

“That certainly is one way to gain the support of the staff,” the princess laughs.

A rustle, as something big disturbs the underbrush. They fall quiet. And then they spot the woods marching towards them.

“Well, aren’t you two being cheerful,” Leorio says, half-obscured by the bush in his arms. The frost-bitten roots sprinkle dirt with every step, but he does not seem to notice. Dear, sweet Leorio! In his eagerness he has overdone things once again. “Please let me in on the joke, I could use a laugh too.”

“We were just debating which animal you sound most like when you snore,” Kurapika says, without batting an eyelash. Leorio drops the bush by the cave’s entrance and growls. “Again, I don’t snore.”

Bits of soil rain on their bedrolls. Alluka brushes them off.

“Interesting claim, but incorrect,” Kurapika says and folds his arms under his chin. “I think it sounds quite like a boar snuffling.”

Alluka knows that the tongue-in-cheek teasing is a distraction, but still she bites the inside of her mouth keep herself from laughing  _ because Kurapika is right _ .

“I think it sounds more like father’s wolfhound snoring, back when he was a little pup.”

“Milady!”, Leorio gasps, and his look of utter comedic betrayal is something worth cherishing. “Oh, I see how it is. ‘Hahaha, let’s all make fun of poor old Leorio.’ Well, maybe I should just look for my own place to sleep, far, far away from you, where my horrid snoring cannot disturb you.”

“We never said it was unpleasant,” Alluka points out.

“Yes and I reckon it might keep the predators at bay,” Kurapika adds.

Leorio wriggles in-between them with all the grace of a senior citizen, huffing and puffing and complaining about the  _ ignorance _ , the  _ disrespect, _ after all that he is doing for them! He continues grumbling in this manner as he pulls the bush in front of the cave’s entrance and begins to settle for sleep and even when he falls quiet, Alluka swears she can still feel him sulk.

She pats his arm, thinking how lucky she is to have him near.

 

Though protected, sleep does not come easy for the four of them.

They lie tightly fit. Limb presses against limb, and Kurapika is too aware of Leorio’s frequent shifts and turns, of the little grunts of pain that accompany them. He is also aware of the pulsing tense heat in the soles of his feet. Sometimes, it gets so bad that he cannot think.

He rolls over to his side. The night is so dark it seems to press against his eyes, but his arm is still warm from where it used to rest against the body next to him. He whispers to the shifting butler: “Your back is worse than you claimed, isn’t it?”

Another small shift. “I’ll be fine,” Leorio insists. Which is not the same as  _ I am fine _ . Finally, he settles on his stomach. “Did I wake you?”

“I was already awake,” Kurapika waves off.

Leorio makes a small noise. “I think we should stay for a while. You can’t walk-”

“And you shouldn’t be riding,” Kurapika adds. There is nothing to be done about sleeping on the cold, hard ground but this at least is something easily avoided.

“Yes. Well. Guess we both have our reasons to stay. So we’re agreed?”

Kurapika does not like the idea of a delay, much less one of undefined length. But he is willing to slow down if it is for the other’s sake as well.

 

Alluka does not appreciate that decisions are made without her consideration. It is something she has come to expect from her parents and teachers, but Leorio is her  _ friend. _

Oh, sure, she sees the necessity of it. She knows there is only one alternative and Nanika keeps asking her about it, but they cannot do that.

Nanika does not understand. She is kinder than anyone and so, so trusting; it hurts her to see Leorio in pain. To know that she can fix it, but is not allowed to do so. Kurapika already knows too much.

_ But he is a friend _ , Nanika says.

_ He is nice enough _ , Alluka agrees. She does not know how to explain to her sister how quickly an ally might turn if they sense an opportunity to gain power. Power like the ability to crush or heal with a single touch.

He knows enough to ruin them. He knows that Nanika can destroy him, if she wanted to. It is a nice balance, and she would like to keep it for a while.


	10. A Scoundrel’s Life for Me

Leorio means to stay for four days and four nights, or at least as long as it takes to treat Kurapika’s infection. He is strict about hygiene and changes the Hoshidan’s bandages twice a day. Thanks to the creek, they have water aplenty. In the mornings, Leorio rises to fill their two pots with it, and he brings the water to a boil before he uses it for anything. He sets some aside to cool off and fill up their water skins, while cooking a runny porridge.

They move camp every afternoon, picking a new spot further upstream, but only as far as Leorio can bear to carry Kurapika on his back.

(Which is something, at least. For according to Leorio’s complaints Kurapika is heavy, but not as heavy as a soldier of his size ought to be.)

Alluka understands. She knows Leorio long enough to tell how soft he is on Kurapika and that makes him twice as anxious about his patient. He barely takes his eyes off the man. But she regards the stock of food, soap and medicines they have and wonders how quickly it will dwindle. The forest offers nuts, ferns and spring roots, even the odd mushroom, but little game. And if their fire is discovered by a band of poachers, what will they make of their little traveling group? A royal butler, a foreign mage and an outlaw who can barely hold her bow right… they make a strange company indeed. So every night when her companion’s arguments have died and she knows them to be asleep, she asks Nanika to take over and heal first Leorio’s back, then Kurapika’s feet. Just a little bit. Not enough to draw notice, for Leorio is right: a staff’s magic cannot heal disease. Alluka does not need Kurapika to wonder as to why  _ she _ can.

Assuming, he is not too caught up in his little petty disagreements with Leorio to pay attention to her at all.

 

The first morning, she is woken by Leorio angrily hissing just what in all the saints’ names Kurapika thinks he is doing, putting on his shoes. Which is followed by Kurapika hissing back that he intents to relieve himself and if Leorio would prefer to see him crawl into the bushes or if he is meant to just follow nature’s call where he is lying?

“Well, I guess you may be excused to walk for that,” Leorio considers. His tone does little to calm Kurapika’s anger. With a biting snarl he retorts: “How very  _ gracious _ of you,” and disappears, treading as if the ground was covered in blades.

Little does she know then that this is only the overture.

Kurapika bears his treatment, but he bears it with little grace. He grows morose in his boredom. He picks at Leorio over nothing until his caretaker grows sour and defensive, yet Leorio never walks away. It’s pitiful to watch. Alluka knows that Leorio can be a bit overbearing, just as she can see why Kurapika would be frustrated to suddenly be stripped of his agenda and purpose, to have his pride constantly challenged, to be told  _ no _ when he is used to be the one in command.

That doesn’t mean she has to like any of this.

On the second day, Alluka returns from her scouting trip triumphant and with a heavy treasure in her arms as she stumbles into yet another hissing match.

 

“If you prefer to steep in your own filth, so be it, but _ I _ am going to have a soak. I trust that you will behave yourself while I am gone.”

“ _ Prefer _ ? You were the one who decided that my wounds need to be kept dry. Forgive me for thinking that this rules out frolicking in the creek.”

“See, I’ll gladly help you-”

“No!”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”

She finds them red-faced with aggravation. Leorio throwing up his arms in frustration, to his feet a pile of what appears to be dirty smallclothes. Kurapika on the other hand sits in a seiza by what appears to be yet another pot of watery stew, quiver strapped upon his back, bow raised but long forgotten over the course of his argument.

“I don’t need to when there’s only a handful of ways that your sentence could end. I happen to find none of them acceptable.”

“Oh for - will you at least give me your clothes so I can wash them?”

“Sure. As soon as you find me something else to cover myself with.”

As Alluka approaches, she catches a whiff of meaty broth and wonders if Kurapika managed to shoot something after all. It almost makes up for his contrary behavior.  _ Almost _ .

“I- hey, it’s not  _ my _ fault nobody thought of packing spares for you, I’m just the guy who got tagged along.”

She announces herself by dropping her heavy bag to the ground with a  _ whump! _ where it collapses in itself and reveals some of its delicious golden content.

Leorio flinches. Kurapika drops the bow and his hand flies to his belt where a knife is strapped. One of Leorio’s throwing knives, remarkable for its marbled blade, the steel tempered with Hoshidan expertise, shaped and balanced by Nohrian design. Alluka had given it to Leorio for his twenty-fifth birthday. Seeing it in Kurapika’s hands stokes her anger, as he has yet to show any sign of gratitude or kindness towards Leorio. What right does he have to borrow this blade?

“I brought us some potatoes,” she says and puts her hands on her hips.

“What?  _ How _ ?” Leorio seems befuddled. “There’s no farmland for miles to come.”

“Nanika was looking for nuts when we found a road. We decided to follow alongside it and then we saw what looked like a merchant’s cart coming towards us. I stopped the lady and we got into a little chat as I was looking at her goods. Turns out there is an inn just a few hours’ march down the road. If we ride at dusk, we can count on darkness to cloak our faces and enjoy a night in a proper bed for once.”

Oh, the glint that springs to her companions’ eyes! Yet, Leorio brushes the edge of his mouth with his thumb and voices concern. “That does sound nice, but it’s going to cost us. I’d rather we keep our coin for necessities.”

“They will have bathtubs and soap!”, she exclaims, gesturing at the pile to Leorio’s feet. “We can do our washing with hot water, our horses will be tended to and most importantly, we will be _ safe _ \- there will be so much we do not have to worry about. Isn’t that worth the money?”

“Well-”, Leorio begins and he looks at Kurapika as if to ask for his aid or opinion. “I see nothing wrong with washing ourselves in the creek and doing our laundry there.”

Kurapika’s insight proves surprisingly neutral. All he has to say is: “Don’t look at me, it’s not my money and therefore not my decision to make.”

“I will _ not  _ wash in the creek. You can’t ask that from me,” Alluka protests. Even if she may sound like a spoiled child, her skin crawls at the idea of crouching down naked in a narrow stream, with nothing to provide cover, nothing to hide her from curious eyes. And finally, she sees realization ripple through Leorio.

“No,” he says softly. “Of course not. Look, I’ll- I’m still gonna get a quick rinse in the creek, but I’ll leave the laundry for now and as soon as I come back, we’ll discuss our finances and our next steps. So that if we stay, we can make the best out of it.”

He says ‘if’ as if he does not already wreck his head over how to make her wish come true without suffering financial consequences. Because this is the kind of man he is. Kind, with a knack for turning large sums in his head so long as these sums are connected to the prospect of real coin. He knows how to haggle, how to cheat, and most importantly, how to spot a man with pockets ripe for picking. But he also likes to say that the key to saving money is to look like you can already afford whatever you desire. And in their current state - weary and bleak-eyed, their clothes ruddy, their hair matted and streaked - they could charm a discount out of nobody. People would look at the barely mended holes Alluka’s tights and avert their eyes as if poor fortune was a disease they might catch.

Leorio puts his cold hand against her cheek and tries for a smile. “We’ll figure something out, I promise.”

“Yes, we will,” Alluka agrees.

 

As Leorio disappears beyond bristly pines, Alluka turns her attention to more imminent matters. She bows over the cooking pot and stirs, looking for the price meat that tickles her nose. As she lifts the spoon, a small rodent skull rises from the depths.

“Are we having rabbit stew today?”, she asks and grimaces. The skull is too small for an adult hare and the teeth do not look quite right either.

“It’s a squirrel,” Kurapika clarifies. “They’re not much for meat, but I hope they make a decent broth at least.”

Alluka drops the spoon and kneels. She regards Kurapika, the straightness of his posture, the hand that rests upon the bow in his lap. He seems to her like a mountain lion lying in wait for his prey, tense but distant. A beast of the land. Impossible to picture him at court, mingling with the loud decadence of aristocracy.

For all the fault she finds in him, she has to admit that he knows how to make himself useful, even in his limited state. Meanwhile, the best she can do is to play at being a peasant.

Alluka pulls the bag of potatoes closer to herself and picks up a knife. She puts the blade to the peel and cuts a piece away. Then another. And another. It’s an unwieldy, time-consuming and  _ dirty _ process. Dry soil crumbles from the peel and mingles with the wet, sticky starch that soon covers her fingers and palm. She stops to wipe her hands on the clean grass.

“I believe,” Kurapika offers, “that you are meant to wash the potatoes _ before _ you start peeling.” His eyes are still turned outward but she can feel his attention like a wisp hovering above her.

“Are you?”

“I’m sure of it. Also, if you try to angle the blade a little more towards the curve of the potato and peel towards yourself instead of whittling away, you get better control and need to use less force. Your hands will thank you for it and you can save more of the potato.”

She frowns. Tries to translate the advice into motions. Kurapika puts the bow and quiver aside and ‘walks’ to her side on his knees and shins. “May I show you?”

Reluctantly, Alluka passes the potato and the knife.

“You press your thumb against the potato like so, then guide the knife towards it. The fresher and firmer the potato, the easier it is to peel,” he explains, cutting into the skin. “Be slow at first. It’s easy to slip and cut yourself. When the blade almost meets your thumb, you adjust it.” And he turns the potato in his hands without interrupting his work flow. She can see then, how he may easily peel the entire thing with continuous care. Leorio likes to cut his apples like this, leaving one big curly peel, like a flattened snake. A gaudy little trick, wholly unnecessary, but how envious she had been! For no one would have bothered to teach her.

“How come you are so skilled at this? Did the kitchen staff make you work as a punishment for terrorizing them with your fire magic?”

Kurapika makes a sound through his nose that might have been amusement. “They wouldn’t have dared. I hate peeling potatoes. We-” He interrupts himself. Wrinkles his nose. When he continues, he keeps his voice low, guarded. “My parents never bothered with peeling. They would wash the potatoes and cook them with the skin. You can eat it, too. My father always used to say that it’s the best part of the potato, not that I ever believed him. I think we could not be afford to be wasteful, so we weren’t. But then I came to the temple.”

Back in the castle, Alluka heard stories of  _ Curarpikt, the beggar prince _ . The boy, the war orphan, who had been picked as a ward by the queen mere days after she took the throne. Who grew up to become a general respected for his cunning and his deadly aim, but also beloved by his battalion for being one of them. So she knows. And at the same time, she cannot begin to imagine the shape of his loss.

“The monks tried to raise us for a humble life. We scrubbed floors and peeled potatoes until our hands were cold and stiff. Said we had to learn how to serve a greater good before we could pick up a healer’s staff. But I never wanted to be a healer.”

Alluka wants to open her mouth and say:  _ neither did I,  _ but the truth is,  _ wanting _ has never been a part of shaping her future. She has become a healer because, given her situation, it was the most respectable choice, one that she had never thought to question. And it served her well, for the most part. Until…

“Kurapika, you asked me for a favor, may I have one in return?”

“If it lies in my power.”

“Can you teach me how to use a bow?”

He stops and looks up from his work, raising a brow. “You do not know and yet you carry one?”

“I always wanted to learn. When I started my troubadour training, I always thought I could promote to the adventurer’s class… since they are staff wielders too. Turns out the only option for me is to become a strategist,  _ unless _ … I start anew as an outlaw.” 

Naturally, her family would ensure it never came to that. They would not let her promote to a maid, so becoming a _ scoundrel _ (as her mother put it) was out of the question. They consider her a disgrace already, for the blood that transformed her, for the ways she had chosen to transform herself and for sharing this body with her sister. Her parents made it very clear that there could be no more blunders.

Kurapika clucks his tongue. “Would you consider taking on a different faith? In Hoshido you may become a shrine maiden and once you rise to the priestess rank, you will receive lessons in archery.”

“Thank you for the consideration, but no. I wish to be an adventurer, in title as well as in spirit.”

“Then I would be honored to be your first teacher.”

And just like that it is decided, a promise sealed with the shake of two starch-sticky hands. And then, just as Kurapika’s lip curls in amusement over the rustic gesture, Alluka squeezes his hand tighter and does not let go.

“One more thing,” she says, trying to let her voice remember all the power she holds. She is a princess, a dragon and, in a way, an ambassador. She will have one more promise out of him. “You will learn to soften your temper around Leorio. I know that you are frustrated, but that gives you no right to lash out at him. You will swallow your pride or I will keep your secret no longer. Do you understand?”

For a moment, his eyes seem to flicker with a red light. A change ripples through him, tears away the subtle smile that he has eased into and Alluka is almost sorry.

“Have I acted so out of line?”, he asks, every word formed with the care of a man that is testing the ice underneath his feet.

She lets go of his hand, but this is far from over.

“He is trying to  _ help _ you and all you do is snarl and gripe at him! I know he can be a bit overbearing in his care, but that is just because he _ likes _ you. He is a good man-”

“I know,” Kurapika breathes. His shoulders rise and fall as he closes his eyes. “I am aware of his virtues.”

“Then what, pray tell, is your problem? Because I don’t understand. You voiced your concern about Leorio shouldering too much of the work and now you wear him thin with your constant debates. You begged my brother to spare his life, but you act like he can do no right. So what is the truth?”

Kurapika startles ever so slightly. He turns his gaze away from her. “Your brother told you.” Stubborn.

“I have tried to convince my brother to let me take Leorio with us when we flee but Killua said that we’d have to stay low and Leorio isn’t the most subtle or quiet company. You made him change his mind in less than an hour. So yes, my brother told me. And now I want your answer.”

“There is no issue. The pain from my infection left me ill-tempered and inconsiderate. It will not happen again.”

“That’s… all?”

Kurapika huffs with irritation. “Well, his constant need to aid me and treat me like a child has challenged my pride in more than one way, but now that I am well on my way to recovery, I expect this to be over soon.”

Alluka fumbles with the end of her braid, unsure how to proceed. She has expected a different cause of the tension between them, but if Kurapika is speaking the truth, then drawing attention to that other matter may not be wise. Except… she is so sure that Kurapika is already aware of it.

“He isn’t doing it to anger you, you know. Nor would he ever take advantage of your weakened state. So if you feel uncomfortable about how much attention he reserves for you, tell him. Kindly. He’s a bit thick-headed sometimes, but he will respect your boundaries.”

She watches with intent, looking for the slightest change in his posture, but all she witnesses is a furrowing of his brows as he shrouds himself in silence.  _ Fine _ . No more beating around the bush. “You complained about the way he looked at you before. I think the word you used was…  _ ogling _ .”

And there it is: the lightest wrinkle of his nose before his face hardens and his hands curl into the fabric of his pants.

“Well, considering that he has spent the last few days staring at nothing but my ruined feet, I don't think this will be an issue anymore either,” Kurapika replies. He makes an attempt to rise, before he remember that he is not supposed to, so he falls back again. He makes an irritated little noise.

Alluka laughs. She doesn’t mean to - it just sweeps over her. “Really? You think a pair of ugly feet will put him off when even your temper has failed to do so? I am afraid not.”

And by the heavens, how offended he gasps, how he turns away from her to nurse his wounded pride.  _ Men _ . “For a moment I thought you were trying to reassure me,” Kurapika complains.

“I am!”, she replies, cheerful as can be. Because she has just found the answer she was looking for. “I am assuring you there is a better and easier way to buy yourself some distance from Leorio, but you don’t want that, do you? And that’s why you don’t want him to find out that you’re a prince either. It was never about sharing work; you could have easily ordered him to rest and leave matters to you. But he would have _ looked _ at you differently. And that you could not accept.”

“That’s-”

“Ridiculous?”, Alluka challenges, stealing his momentum. She dares him to prove her wrong, so sure of the conclusion she has drawn. “As ridiculous as how he keeps offering to carry you? Why yes, both of you are. Just.  _ Talk to him _ . Be honest about what you want instead of pushing him around and neither of you has to be miserable any longer.”

“I-”, he starts, and for the first time his certainty and callousness seem to waver. “I  _ can’t _ . Princess, please consider my situation, you must see how inappropriate it would be if I just-”

If he what? Falls in love with a commoner, a Nohrian? Or if he rejects all that is expected of him to forge his own path? Yes, she knows that struggle too well. For this is a struggle she is well-acquainted with.

“I know only one thing: if I had lived only by what my family considered  _ appropriate _ for me, I would have perished by now. Acting appropriate is just bowing to other people’s standards instead of choosing your own. It breeds regret and nothing else. I’m done with that.”

Alluka breathes deeply and puffs out the air in a hyperbolic sigh. “Well. It’s your choice in the end. So long as you remember to be kind to Leorio, I do not care which one you decide on. Also… we still need water to wash these potatoes,” she concludes and touches her chin. “I think I’ll head to the creek. Will you be alright on your own?”

Kurapika rests his hand on the bow and says: “I am… how do you say?  _ Set _ .”

Alluka nods and picks up their other pot. She steps gingerly around the heap of dirty smallclothes, wondering how long it’s been since Leorio set out himself.

 

He is not hard to find. She knows the trail of his perfume, knows the bite of winter that lies underneath. His soppy shirt hangs from a branch like a flag of surrender.

She finds him standing by the water’s edge, his skin pink, shivering miserably. And against that flush of color the scars on his back show white, deep-etched markings. A glaring reminder of how much others have paid for her missteps. This is something not even Nanika can heal anymore.

Leorio does not turn around, but he can tell she’s there. His teeth chatter as he speaks. “I don’t recommend dipping your toes in. Water’s icy, even by my standards. I think there’s still snow on Mount Garou, not that I wanna find out.”

“Leorio…”

“You were right about the inn,” he goes on, cheerful as ever. Puts his hands on his sides and peeks over his shoulder. “I think we could all need a night in a proper bed and a hot bath. Watcha got there?”

“I came to fetch water for the potatoes.”

“Ah.” He clucks his tongue knowingly. “Of course. So, uh. You didn’t leave because of Kurapika’s foul mood, did you?”

“No, he was very polite to me.”

“Ah. That’s… good. He can be a bit…  _ much _ .” Leorio pokes a large pebble with his bare foot and Alluka wonders if he’s as aware as herself that Kurapika’s  _ handfulness _ only extends to one of them. “But it’s probably not a good idea to leave him all alone.”

“Leorio, he’s armed and probably more dangerous than you or me. And I think that your relationship with Kurapika might profit from a little bit of distance. Or at least he will have less opportunity to be difficult when there is no one to witness it.”

“He’s not the worst patient I had to put up with, by far,” Leorio says sheepishly. “No one’s on their best behavior when they are sick. People get fussy, that’s just normal. I can’t just stop treating him just because I don’t like his tone.”

“Would you be making excuses for a less handsome patient, too?”, Alluka asks. And as she watches Leorio sputter and row his arms, she wonders how she became the most mature member of their little fellowship. Or if it was really such a wise idea to encourage Kurapika, considering he had yet to earn the high esteem in which he was held by certain members of their party.

She can only hope that the prince will rediscover his grateful side soon. She sighs. 

“Go then, if you want to go. I can tell you are burning to make sure he’s alright.”

Leorio huffs as if to say that he is not so weak as she makes him out to be, but he hurries to put on his socks and shoes, and stops in his rushing only to press a kiss on her forehead.

“I’d be just as worried about you, milady. So don’t be out here too long.”

He does not linger for her answer. Leorio rushes on; with a leap he snags his wet shirt from the branch and charges through the underbrush. Another leap and he is almost gone from her view.

Alluka closes her eyes and wonders what it is about being in love that turns sensible people into fools.

 

By the time Leorio returns to the camp he has planned most aspects of their upcoming stay at the inn in minute detail. He has drafted and tossed three different backstories for their little group and has composed a list in his mind with all the chores they need to do for themselves; he has decided that they may stay for as long as it takes their laundry to dry and not a night longer.

Leorio does not worry about the weight of their purse yet but they need to stock up on food and medicine as soon as they reach Dia. And who knows to what decadent prices the merchants were inspired, after the last winter?

At least Kurapika’s wounds seem to heal well and not too soon; Leorio is running out of clean gauze fast.

“How is it possible that every time you come to examine me, your hands have gotten colder again? One might think you are doing this on purpose,” the Hoshidan contemplates.

Leorio runs one of his fingertips across Kurapika’s sole out of spite, to feel his patient squirm, and yes, that may be childish, but the movement also reveals a lot. The fresh scab on Kurapika’s cuts loosens around the edges, revealing pink and tender flesh underneath, but it does not ooze and it does not come off entirely.

“I can see no more signs of infection. I want to wait one more night to be safe, but I think by tomorrow morning, I can mend your skin with a spell. And… if you’re careful about where to step, I think it can’t harm if you walk a little, every now and then. In fact, if we are really going to make it to the inn tonight, it’s better not to draw attention to your injury. You never know what kind of a crowd to expect in such an establishment.”

Kurapika acknowledges this with a small, pensive noise and continues to stare into the distance.

“I had expected a little more enthusiasm.”

“And I had expected you to return in a more decent manner, guess we both have been disappointed.”

With a frown, Leorio regards his naked chest and then his patient, who he realizes now is doing his very best to look anywhere but the general direction of aforementioned chest. He puts Kurapika’s foot down.

“My shirt is still sopping wet and it was the only clean one I still had left, so I’m waiting for it to dry.”

“Then use your jacket to cover yourself up.”

“Without a shirt underneath? What am I, a barbarian? Besides, it’s just us. Feel free to look as much as you want, it doesn’t bother me.”

“It bothers  _ me _ ,” Kurapika hisses.

“Does it now?” Leorio asks, with more sass than intended. He does not consider himself vain but if a man as handsome as Kurapika feels the need to imply that the sight of him is appalling, that  _ hurts _ . “I’m afraid you’ll have to be bothered for a few more hours then until my shirt is dry. ”

Kurapika huffs. “Why do you Nohrians have so little modesty?”

“I don’t know, why do you Hoshidans have to be so damn uptight about everything?”, Leorio challenges. He straightens his back and squares up his shoulders, preparing for the inevitable verbal revenge-

“ _ Whatever _ .” Kurapika rubs his mouth and steals a glance, as if to demonstrate that he is  _ not  _ uptight, thank you very much. It would have been more convincing, if his cheeks had not gained such a nice flush of color. It’s almost adorable to watch him struggle so, but also bears the question how the Hoshidans handle going to war. Do they all have such a need for privacy or it is just Kurapika? How do they handle their bathing? Blindfolded?

Or… could there be other factors playing into his discomfort?

“I could help you dry your shirt, you know,” Kurapika grumbles.

“Oh! Really? Well, why didn’t you say so right away?” Leorio rises to his feet and jobs back to the edge of the clearing, where his shirt hangs stretched over new branches. It doesn’t even take him a minute, but when he returns, Kurapika has taken up a quizzical expression.

“What’s the matter?”

“Leorio, your back…”

“Oh,  _ that _ .” He belches out a single bout of laughter, high pitched and nervous. It has been so long since he had met someone who hasn’t heard the tale of his big screw-up that he never learned how to tell it and so far, that has served Leorio just well. He has no interest in laying down all the embarrassing secrets. And so he settles on some throwaway remark about how these things just happen when you are careless and surely Kurapika would understand, as he has plenty of scars on his own-

“Someone did this to you,” Kurapika cuts him off. “This looks like the pattern of a whip.”

As always, he is far too clever. Leorio tests the edge of his teeth with his tongue. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t still my fault. You break the rules, you get punished. A simple deal.”

“And who ordered the punishment?”

“That’s not for you to concern yourself with.” Leorio turns his soggy shirt in his hands and, after a short moment of consideration, holds it out to Kurapika. “But it wasn’t Alluka, if that’s what you think.”

“I don’t.”

“Good. Then let’s not fuss about the past and instead focus on getting your feet all wrapped up again.”

Gingerly, Kurapika takes the wet shirt. His fingers radiate a cozy warmth, like sun-baked stone and without another word, he begins to button and fold the piece of clothing in his lap, running his hands across the fabric to flatten and dry. There is something defiant and stubborn about his silence and Leorio can’t shake the feeling that this is not the last time he will be confronted with these questions.

With a sigh, he fetches his last two rolls of gauze.

 

* * *

They reach the roadside inn shortly after nightfall.

Kurapika and Alluka wait outside with the horses as Leorio ventures on ahead to book a room for two nights. He returns with the news that there are no rooms with three beds available.

“But it’s fine, I can keep sleeping on the floor, you two take the beds,” he assures.

The inn is run by a young married couple who introduce themselves as Pokkle and Ponzu Archer. Pokkle offers to bring the horses to the stable himself. Meanwhile his wife leads Leorio, Kurapika and Alluka through the dining area, past a noisy group of travelers and up a flight of stairs, to show them the room. Their quarters are sparsely furnished: a single nightstand divides the two beds; there is a slim wardrobe to one corner and a round table with two chairs to the other.

“If you wish to take your meals here,” the woman explains. “You’re lucky, we still serve dinner for another hour.”

“Dinner sounds great, actually,” Leorio says and grants her a beaming smile.

Alluka asks if it is still possible to take a bath as well.

“Oh, of course.” Ponzu claps her hands together. “Anyone else?”

Kurapika twists one of his strands between his fingers. His hair has become quite greasy during the past few days, and although he’d love to dunk his entire body in hot, soapy water, he figures he can wait another night, until the bandages are off. So he requests a bath in the morning. “One more thing… I noticed a bookshelf by the reception, could I be so bold to borrow a book? I promise, I will take good care of it.”

“Oh, of course, go right ahead! Half of these have been left behind by other travelers, so if you’re interested, I might tell you which ones we can part with.”

“A-are you sure?”, Kurapika asks, not quite trusting his ears because what kind of uncivilized  _ rich _ fool would abandon a book?

Ponzu shrugs and adds a little sheepishly: “Not all of them are of the same quality. In terms of craft, as well as content. But you can see for yourself.”

 

Because they do not plan on staying for very long, neither of them bothers with unpacking, and so they each find a little occupation before dinner. Alluka sits down cross-legged on the bed and studies the heavy fire tome that they have brought all the way from the castle. She waves Kurapika off when he suggests that she may join him in picking out new reading material downstairs.

Leorio, on the other hand, quickly disappears to help fetch water from the well.

Thus, Kurapika finds himself facing the book shelf with no one to give him recommendations. He can see what Ponzu was hinting at, though: there are sturdy, leather-bound encyclopedias on native herbs and golden-lettered gardening guides, which share their space with a few yellow, pulpy sheets of paper that have been sewed together at the folding line in their midst. The construction does not look like it is meant to last and he barely dares to pull one out, fearing that it might fall apart. He skims across the first page and finds it poor in word choice and spelling. A tale about a young woman without fortune or brothers to care for her, who so desperately seeks to be betrothed -

Kurapika wrinkles his nose and puts it back. He may be bored, but he has dignity. The choice is not made easier thanks to the noisy group of travelers that is scattered by the tavern fireplace. They seem to be conducting an arm-wrestling tournament, based on all the shouting and the whooping. A dozen men in ruddy adventurer gear, made cheerful and sloppy from wine and greasy meal. Kurapika fixes them with a disapproving look.

“Do not pay them any mind,” Pokkle says as he trudges by with a bucket of oats. “They show up here every few nights in a month to drink until they can’t stand anymore, but they’re pretty much harmless. I mean, they’re loud and braggarts and messy, but they don’t cause no trouble so long as you don’t start any.”

Which of course is just another way of saying ‘do not provoke’. The leader of the group appears to be a round-nosed, round-bellied short man with beady eyes and brown hair - an unspectacular fellow in both appearance and demeanor. Not the kind of person you’d expect at court and therefore not the kind of man who would be at their heels. Kurapika’s curiosity runs dry.

He borrows a book about gardening and climbs up the stairs again, step by aching step. By the time he reaches the top, he has half forgotten about the adventurers again.

 

Dinner is hare stew and bread dumplings, but Kurapika takes his meal alone. Alluka disappears to take a bath, and Leorio only shows up to fetch a few coins from their purse and announce that he will be eating downstairs. Kurapika shrugs in response.

He should feel glad or relieved to finally have some privacy again. To enjoy not having to answer to anybody. But even as he stretches out on the bed with his reading material, his mind does not find rest. The walls seem to throw back the echoes of the laughter downstairs, wood creaks as the house settles like an old giant and the wind throws itself against the window, rushing and whining, and-

The bed is too wide. It might easily fit two people, if they kept close, a fact that has not been pointed out by either of his fellow travelers. Kurapika has expected that at least Princess Alluka might drop a hint, after the uncomfortable conversation they had shared not a few hours ago.

Instead, he has to contemplate this unprompted. Not that there is anything to contemplate about, even though all the world is so eager to remind him how handsome and kind and diligent and _ available _ Leorio Paladiknight is. But what good is there in dreaming of a man’s embrace, no matter how safe his arms and how open his smile, when Kurapika is to be wed soon? Why chase after a shadow of something he can never have?

Perhaps he might take a lover one day, with the blessing of his wife. Someone quiet and respectable, who does not draw attention to himself. Someone so very unlike-

As if to mock his thoughts, Kurapika can faintly hear Leorio’s voice from down below. Not the words, only its shape and rhythm, the pitch rising with excitement and starting a bout of raucous laughter from the adventurers. Is he… entertaining the ruffians?

Kurapika rises again. Book pressed to his chest, he ambles out of the room and sits down on the top of the stairs instead - a place less comfortable, but it allows him to peer down into the bar room while being obscured by the banister. Leorio sits at a round table with five of the ruffians, engaged in a card game that seems to involve money, swearing, and a lot of schnapps.

He continues reading, or tries to. From his high-perched position, Kurapika can see the colors of Leorio’s cards, and so he can make an educated guess about the worth of his hand in each round. As it turns out, a game of cards is more exciting than learning about the soil requirements for growing berries.

Soon, he is joined by Alluka, who is shrouded in the scents of lavender and rosemary.

“Is he trying to fill our purse by gambling?”, she asks and leans her arms on the banister.

“Yes, and it seems like he is succeeding, from what I can tell. Apparently, the loser of each round has to drink a small glass of brandy, to make it more interesting. Leorio only had one drink.”

“Wouldn’t it be smarter to have the winner take a drink, to even out the chances?”

“Because gambling is always such a fair business?”, Kurapika asks, squinting up at her.

The princess laughs and tilts her head a little as if to say ‘that’s fair’. “I don’t think we have any reason to worry. He’s as skilled in drinking as he is in matters of the coin. And he’s quick with cards.”

“That’s not usually part of a butler’s repertoire,” Kurapika remarks.

“Peeling potatoes isn’t usually part of a prince’s repertoire either, right? People can be more than just their duties. I did tell him once that he makes a fine scoundrel. See, he was playing theater once. Got the role of the main villain. Strutting around on stage, hatching schemes… but when I praised him for how well he filled his role, he looked like he had tasted something rotten. Said he’d rather be the kind of thief who takes from the rich and gives to the poor. And then he assured me that he’d never trade his life as a butler for a life of fame, because he’d rather help people in earnest than just playing the part.” She smiles to herself.

“While that may be true, the actor brings joy to his audience. That’s important too. My father would always say that the mind needs nourishment just as the body does.”

Alluka smiles and shifts her footing, scratching her left ankle with her right toes. “Right. Is that why your warriors are all trained in fine arts? I heard that the Hoshidan samurai must be able to wield a pen as precisely as a sword.”

Kurapika agrees that it is just so. “Although I never was partial to calligraphy myself. I have too many words to write to put much effort into the form,” he explains.

“What  _ do _ you enjoy then?”, the princess teases.

What indeed? He keeps his diaries and chronicles and owns a few bonsai, although Pairo tends more to them than he does.

Kurapika brushes his hand over the cover of the book. “I always wanted to have a little garden. Grow my own food, as my parents used to when I was a child.” Except it would be easier at the heart of the country, where the soil was rich and dark. “But I don’t spend much time at the… at home.”

“Well, once our kingdoms make peace, you will have your chance,” Alluka points out.

Kurapika nods, his tongue suddenly tied. Because once the war ends, there will be no more reason to delay his marriage either. And although he made this choice, he still feels ill-suited, like a prickly thistle in a flower arrangement. He will have to make piece with that too. At least he can be a good father to Woble, even if he will never be more than a friend and consultant to his wife.

Downstairs, Leorio stretches his arms and yawns. He puts his cards on the table and reclines in his chair, throwing back his head in a tired groan that lets his fellow players perk up. But all his weariness is forgotten the moment he spots Alluka and Kurapika up on the top of the stairs - his breaks into a grin and winks at them, before turning his attention back to the game.

Such a small gesture, but Kurapika finds himself smiling and his face growing warmer, until he has to look away. How  _ embarrassing _ .

(The truth is, he doesn’t want to sit and wait for a more respectable lover to come around. He wants  _ this one _ . Even if he is loud and does not mince his words, keeps strange company and picks fights he isn’t sure he can win. Even if the timing couldn’t be worse.)

“I think this is a bad spot for reading after all,” he says to himself, although if anything this act is meant for the princess, an excuse for his exit from the scene. Perhaps he would have made a better actor, too.

He leaves to the right, pursued by no one.

 

Leorio returns late. His legs are not as steady as he would like it, but he has lost none of the rounds that mattered. He can feel the coins he won heavy in his pockets.

Despite the hour, a shimmer of light creeps out under the door. He enters.

Alluka is fast asleep and curled up in her bed, the covers pulled up so high that only the top of her head is visible. Kurapika is lying on his stomach, the book propped up against his pillow to catch as much of the candlelight as possible. He does not interrupt his reading.

Leorio sneaks to the wardrobe where they store most of their belongings and fills the purse with the contents of his pockets, sparing only a few coins for tomorrow night. Then he strips to his undergarments and picks up his bedroll. He takes it to the space between the two beds, but just as he stoops to kneel, Kurapika speaks up.

“Sleeping on the floor is not going to improve your back pains,” he whispers, “and there is room enough on this mattress for two.”

Leorio blinks. Coming from everyone else, these words would be an open invitation, but-

Kurapika closes his book and stuffs it under the pillow. He does not meet Leorio’s helpless glance as he draws the covers over his shoulder, but he adds: “I’ll count to ten, then I’ll kill the lights. If you haven’t joined me by then, I’ll retreat my offer.”

Leorio doesn’t need to be told twice. He crawls onto the mattress and under the covers, making sure to keep a respectable distance. As promised, Kurapika blows out the candle wicks ten heartbeats later, and the room fills with darkness and the scent of burnt wax.

“And you don’t have to be a stranger about it either. I don’t bite.”

“Oh, I don’t mind a nip or two,” Leorio says before his brain can catch up with his tongue. “I mean, uh-”

Before Leorio can make his mind up what he means, Kurapika reaches for his wrist and pulls Leorio’s arm around his waist. And that’s all the invitation Leorio needs to relax into this embrace and pull himself snug against Kurapika’s back.


	11. A Miscalculation

Leorio wakes to an empty bed.

The day has long stretched from morning to noon, as evident by the remnants of breakfast that stand on the round table. Bread rolls that have gone cold, painfully hard cheese and smoked fowl, a few dry clementines. A jar of tea leaves. His companions left him a clean plate, a knife and a cup. A note in Alluka’s handwriting is perched against the cup. It reads:

 

_ Good morning! _

_ We didn’t want to wake you, so I saw to healing Ks feet. _

_ You will find us in the back yard. _

_ Love, _

_ A _

 

_ P.S.: Don’t worry about the laundry, that’s been taken care of too. _

 

He rubs over his face, his cheeks, trying to chase away that hot, grimy feeling on his skin and maybe a hint of shame too. He had two jobs on this journey, keeping the princess safe and tending to their belongings, and it seems that both have been taken well out of his hands.

There is nothing left for him to do but to enjoy the peace of this late morning, early noon. He takes a light breakfast as the water for his bath is prepared, just fruits and a few cutlets of the lean meat and then grants himself the extravagance of drinking his tea while he soaks in the wooden tub. He floats, trying to forget about the aches in back and his rear or the thrumming behind his left eye that reminds him of the previous night.

Leorio dunks his head underwater and breathes out big bubbles through his nose, before resurfacing. He slicks back his hair. It seems like things are finally starting to get better for them. Coming to the inn has turned out a profit rather than an investment, it has raised all their spirits and smoothed over the difficulties between him and Kurapika.

If he closes his eyes he can still feel the way Kurapika’s limbs pressed against his, the way his fingers had curled around Leorio’s, sending warmth with every touch. He has made himself  _ vulnerable _ . And the fact that they had both been dirty and smelly from their journey did not take away from how exciting that step has been.

And if Leorio’s mind and hands drift away to more pleasant things as he lies in the hot water, who can blame him? It’s been a stressful few days. He needs to unwind.

 

The backyard is just a square of green that breaches right into the forest. Flower beds stretch along the walls of the inn, poles have been set up with hooks at their top to span clotheslines to and fro, which now hang low under the weight of undergarments and stockings, shirts and cloaks and… one whimsical dark mage’s outfit.

Leorio steps out in the dim midday haze in his last good shirt and slacks and plucks ribbons of gauze from the clothesline. He rolls them up as he walks, navigating through the clammy clothes like it was a narrow maze and following the echo of familiar voices.

“- mustn’t worry too much about your aim right now. Just focus on the technique. This isn’t a bow suited for a beginner so it’s just natural that you’re struggling with it. What you need is a lighter, more elastic model that requires little strength to draw, something made from bronze-strengthened wood, or a mini-bow. These models have a shorter range, but range means nothing if you cannot  _ aim _ . And over time, you will develop the strength to handle sturdier models.”

“And how long will that take?”, Alluka asks. Leorio notices a whim of stubbornness. It is the same tone that slips through whenever her father denies her something, urging her to patience.

“Well, it depends. Years, most likely. I picked up the bow when I was fourteen and I was not allowed to handle an advanced model until I turned seventeen.”

“Years?”, Alluka echoes. “But then I’m not gonna be any good to us right now!”

“So? You don’t need to be a fighter. In fact, I am sure your brother would prefer if we keep you far away from any skirmishes. Your purpose is to  _ stay safe _ , so you may one day aid Killua in his reign, is it not? Leave the rest up to me and Leorio.”

Leorio lifts the side of a bed sheet to step through underneath and finds himself in the open again.

“But if I know how to fight, I can defend myself,” Alluka insists, rubbing her shoulder and circling her arm. She does not notice Leorio approach as her focus is on a raggedy scarecrow that has been put up by the forest’s edge. Neither does Kurapika.

Both of Leorio’s companions are clad in borrowed clothes, no doubt a courtesy of their hosts. Alluka’s simple yellow day dress barely reaches past her knees and the leather vest she wears on top seems fashioned for a man, highlighting the width of her shoulders. She’s a strong girl, although she prefers to wear dresses cut to obscure this fact.

Her hair is tied back with a muslin ribbon, to keep it out of her eyes.

“Archery is not meant for self defense,” Kurapika argues. He is about of equal size with Pokkle, so the innkeeper’s russet pants and hempen shirt fit just right, and with his tan skin and wheat-colored hair, he could have been just a common man, one among many. Except every word he says betrays his education. “It is for hunting. For battles. Self-defense happens at a close range and all it requires is a sharp blade aimed at a vulnerable spot. I suggest the insides of a thigh or the neck.”

Leorio clears his throat. “Or how about we don’t make killing a man our first and only option, huh?”

“Look who finally got up,” Alluka teases.

“I see you have been busy this morning,” Leorio goes on, pretending not to hear. He stuffs the rolls of gauze into his pockets until his slacks look strangely bulky around the hips. “Who do I have to thank for the laundry?”

“That was Kurapika, but I helped!” Alluka beams with excitement and Leorio can’t help but to return the smile.

He pats her head and says: “That’s wonderful, dove. I’m proud of you.” Because he knows she hasn’t been told enough. And because it’s right that she takes pride in her achievements, no matter how unfitting they might seem for her status.

Kurapika, however seems to shy from praise. He drifts away from them, following the trail of arrows and plucking each of them from the soft ground.

“Archery training is going great, I see,” Leorio remarks, not unkindly.

The princess sighs. “It’s so hard even to draw the bow. My arms are aching and I’ve not practiced a full hour!”

“It’s going to get easier, I promise.” Although he reckons that by tomorrow, she would feel too sore to practice for a few days. He makes a note to look for a soothing salve at the next market they come to. “And as soon as we are in Hoshido, I will haggle for the prettiest and lightest bow I can find for you, so you can shoot to your heart’s content.”

“Thank you, but there’s really no rush. I’m sure you heard Kurapika, it might take years to build up skill. A simple practice weapon will do.”

“Alright. If you’re sure.” Sometimes, he misses the days when she was younger, when it had been easier to spoil and excite her. The shimmer in her eyes over receiving a fancy new toy or stuffed animal. Now, she was growing into a sensible woman and it was in part his fault for sharing too much about his concerns, for being too vocal about spending, for letting her tug along and watch him tend to his duties whenever she was bored - which was too often.

“Oh!”, Alluka calls out, remembering something. “It must be almost time to prepare lunch. I offered Ponzu my help.”

“You.. What?”, Leorio asks, but she is already dashing back into the house. First the laundry, now kitchen work… the princess is well on her way to becoming a proper scullery maid, if he does not put an end to this. If he wants to put an end to this. 

If it brings her joy, who is he to tell her no?

A breeze picks up, lifting the laundry closer to the skies and Leorio is suddenly very aware that his long underwear is on display because no one had the common sense to hang up the more private clothes on the central lines. How  _ embarrassing _ .

“She is doing well, for a beginner,” Kurapika says, stepping into the periphery of Leorio’s vision. And Leorio startles and  _ screams _ . He catches himself quickly, pressing a hand over his fast-beating heart and one over his too loud mouth because he just screeched like an old crone. And he would like to die now, to avoid sinking in shame. “Do you have to sneak like that? What are you, a ninja?”

Kurapika frowns. He holds the collected arrows on the crook of his arm like others might carry a heavy bouquet of flowers. “You know that I am not. And I never was.”

“Yeah, but normal people make noise when they approach someone.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Kurapika says, and laughter wrinkles the corners of his eyes. He reaches out; his fingertips brush against Leorio’s shoulder blades softly. “I thought you might be curious to know that she possesses all the right virtues for an archer. The keys are posture and the right breathing techniques, which she has adapted rather quick.”

“You mean it?” Leorio turns to face the Hoshidan and allows himself to look at him, instead of stealing glances every now and then. Kurapika looks… changed. His fine hair has acquired a healthy glow and some liveliness, and his manner is altogether changed. Gone are the sour remarks, the stubborn pouts and the tautness of his jaw. They have been chased away by a sort of serene calm. Kurapika seems  _ comfortable _ .

“The rest is just determination, and I don’t see her lacking in that.” He tucks a strand behind his ear and brushes against his ruby earring by chance. In the pale sunlight, the stone has the color of blood. It’s an unusual piece of jewelry for a soldier, even one of higher rank, from the sharp-edged western cut of the stone to the delicate golden chain that it was fastened to - which made it a hazard in battle. He wonders how Kurapika - a war orphan, a child of the fire tribe - came to own such a beautiful, expensive piece. A family heirloom? A treasure conquered from a Nohrian noble during one of his battles? Or perhaps a gift from a generous admirer?

The more he wonders the more Leorio realizes that he knows little about Kurapika’s life. That they should share a bed before they shared their interests, favorite meals or old childhood fears just seemed strange to him. Then again, if someone would ask him about the name of Baise’s mother or any of her sisters, he could not tell either, because that was how she had liked it. And they had been lovers only the physical sense. She had never stayed a whole night by his side just for comfort. She had not allowed him near when she was sick.

And parting with her hadn’t left him confused and restless.

“Leorio?”, Kurapika asks. “Is everything alright?”

“Would you join me for dinner tonight?”

“You mean as opposed to all the other meals we have spent separate?”, the Hoshidan teases.

“Oh come on, you know exactly what I mean. You, me, having a nice meal by the fireplace, sharing private stories…” Although now that he describes it, it does sound a lot like they have spent most of their evenings. Except this time they would have chairs and tables. “I just want to get to know you better!”, he blurts out at the same time that Kurapika says “gladly”.

Leorio blinks, and straightens his spine. “Oh! That’s… nice, real nice. I, uh, will pick you up then?”, Leorio says, and he knows how foolish he sounds halfway through. They will be seeing each other all day, there is no need for a formal pick up before the rendezvous.

Kurapika stifles a laugh. “If I don’t find you first.”

 

_ It is just dinner, _ Kurapika tells himself to silence the flutter of excitement in his belly. Just two men enjoying each other’s company. Who could find a fault in that?

Kurapika is not in denial about Leorio’s intention behind that invitation, and as much as he enjoys being courted, he is walking a thin line. He needs to be subtle, needs to keep decorum. When he returns to the palace, he wants to say in earnest that he has done nothing to bring dishonor to the family that took him in. So long as he is discreet, so long as he does not cross a certain line, he should be free to enjoy the advances that he receives.

Belatedly he realizes he should have communicated his need for discretion to Leorio, who disappears an hour before dinner only to return with a purple crocus in the chest pocket of his suit and another to present to Kurapika.

“I don’t have a jacket,” Kurapika points out, smoothing his hands over the borrowed shirt.

“Well, if you let me-” Leorio says and Kurapika stands very still as Leorio tucks the flower behind his ear. “There we go.”

Leorio takes a step back to admire and his smile is nervous, but just as excited. “Lovely.”

_ This is nothing big, _ Kurapika assures himself again, although he finds it harder and harder to believe. They have their free choice of tables and pick a small one in the corner, by the crackling fire.

“Do you like wine?”, Leorio asks and Kurapika confirms that he does.

“Just not tonight,” he adds. “I don’t drink while I’m… traveling. And it really isn’t necessary.”

They order apple blossom tea instead. Ponzu brings them a jar of honey and a jar of jam for sweetening.

The meal of the evening is onion soup with dark bread and a little liver pastry that Kurapika shoves over to Leorio’s side of the table as soon as their hostess is gone.

“Not a fan of liver?”

“No. Tastes too much like blood.”

“Ah,” Leorio says.

The conversation trickles on in this fashion, accompanied by the chinking of spoon against bowl. They already know each others professions, and technically neither of them has family left that one might chat about. So Leorio inquires after Kurapika’s interests and dislikes, how he spends his spare time, and what kind of home he keeps. Kurapika keeps his answers vague and deflects whenever he needs to. Because what else is he going to do, tell the truth?

_ See, I said that I have no family left but I was taken in by a kind woman who just happens to be the Queen of Hoshido! Which is why I spend my days roaming the castle, studying historical records and attending council meetings whenever our countries are not at war because these are the duties expected of those who have a claim to the throne. _

No. It is much too soon for that.

“What about you? Alluka says you used to do theater.”

Leorio blanches a little. “One play. I did one play because the main actor broke his leg and- she really told you about that?”

“She said you were a proper villain. Why? Is this not something you like people to know?”

Leorio waves it off, but his brows are still tightly knit. “No, it’s not that. But things took a bad turn and I got in trouble and- well.” He scratches his arm. “It’s quite a sinister story for a quiet evening.”

“You know that this only makes me more curious, right?”, Kurapika says and leans over, folding his hands under his chin.

“Does it? Or do you just like to see me embarrassed?”

“Maybe a little bit of both.”

Leorio snorts. “Well, too bad that I am in no mood of telling it. Especially not to you.”

“Oh, I see”, Kurapika says, stretching the vowels with delight. “It’s about a  _ girl _ .” It’s a guess more than anything, meant only to tease and fluster.

Leorio does not share his mirth. Color starts to speckle his cheeks, and he fumbles with his sleeves, he fumbles with his words. “That’s not what happened! I mean, there was a girl, but she had nothing to do with- with- the way things turned out. But I admit, if it weren’t for her, I never would have put a foot on stage in the first place.”

And so Leorio does tell the story after all, mulling over his fast-cooling soup. Not because he feels comfortable with it, but because he is afraid of being misunderstood - and with every passing sentence Kurapika’s regret grows. The beginning is light-hearted enough: a traveling theater group comes to the capital to perform their latest clever play, when a young, hot-headed butler catches a glimpse of the silver-voiced songstress that is the star of the ensemble and starts pining for her.

He comes to every show until he knows the lines by heart, but he never grows weary of seeing her dance, her lithe body shaping the music like an instrument.

His constant presence is noticed at last. Her eyes, gray like seafoam, begin to look for him in the crowd. She allows him to bring her a single flower each night. He insists on helping clean up after the show until, little by little, he becomes part of the crew. He watches the play from the side of the stage, he fixes her makeup in between scenes if it is needed. He sleeps in her bed more than his own and sneaks back to the castle in the dreary morning hours.

He does not shirk his duties, but his mind and heart are elsewhere as he tends to them. The other servants snicker and gossip and he couldn't care less, until… until even the princess catches wind of it.

And at this part, the guilt creeps in. Kurapika spots it in fingertips that pluck apart a piece of dark bread, in a downcast glance, brows that tremble and furrow.

“She wanted to come along, to see what it is like behind the stage. And I didn’t see any harm in taking her. It wasn’t hard to find a maid’s uniform for her and a proper bonnet to shield her face. Not that anyone on the street would recognize her, since no one knew what the princess looked like. And as for the theater group, I told them she was my sister. They let her stay and watch as long as she didn’t get in the way and she never did. And I thought…” Leorio interrupts himself and licks his lips. The crease between his brows becomes more prominent. “I thought sooner or later, her curiosity would be satisfied. But she didn’t come out of curiosity alone.”

Kurapika reaches out and seizes Leorio’s hand. “You don’t need to tell the rest of it if it’s painful,” he says.

But Leorio shakes his head and says that there isn’t much left to tell.

“When the time came around for the troupe to move on, Alluka asked me if I didn’t rather want to go with them. If I would stay by my sweetheart’s side, given the choice. And I told her that my place would always be with her. And she asked:  _ ‘So what if you didn’t have to choose?’ _ ”

“She wanted to run away.”

Leorio nods. “I knew life wasn’t easy for her in the palace, but I never suspected that she’d be so miserable to run away. Without her brother, no less.”

“Did you talk her out of it?”

“Not outright. I figured that if I tried, she would look for another opportunity to run. And if that opportunity came around, she might not confide in me again. I didn’t know what to do or who to turn to. The other butlers might rat her out to the king and the last thing I wanted was for Alluka to get punished. I considered telling Prince Killua, but he was at a really difficult age. I thought long and hard, how to best keep my princess safe. And in the end I went to my sweetheart and asked her if she’d have me. Well… she didn’t.”

Leorio shrugs and laughs, trying to make light of the situation. Kurapika is sure that he has never heard a sadder sound.

“Turns out that part of my appeal was that I was bound to the castle and could not chase her like most of her admirers. She was never looking for something serious. Well. Would’ve been nice to know in advance.”

(And now it is Kurapika’s turn to flinch with guilt.)

Leorio shrugs, although his face betrays regret. “Finding out wasn’t the bad part, though. Because when I left the inn where she was staying and my feet carried me back to the market, back towards the castle, I realized that I had no idea how to explain to my princess that I couldn’t take her away to a simpler life. And I know it wasn’t my fault that it wouldn’t work out, but it still felt like letting her down. I took my time going back. I may have tried to find the right words at the bottom of a few glasses of ale, and when I returned to the castle…”

Leorio swallows, hard. “I was seized the moment I set one foot on the grounds and dragged before the king. I could tell from his face that he knew the whole story. Prince Illumi was at his side and  _ his _ face revealed nothing, as always, but he must've been the one to make Alluka talk. He has a way of manipulating folks… like planting seeds of fear straight into people’s minds. And I thought of my girl, locked away in a windowless room,  _ terrified _ . I was sure they’d never let me see her again, so I did the only thing I could to protect her: I took the blame. I said that the idea was all mine.  _ I _ made her believe that she was unhappy. I was the one who gave her the idea of running away, and the means to do it. The king was so eager to believe me, he didn’t even ask me why.”

“But if he had Alluka’s confession-”

Leorio shakes his head. “They never cared for her word. What they cared for was how it would look like if it became known that the princess had wanted to run away. The king didn’t want folks to think that he didn’t even have his own children under control. He was trying to save his face and I gave him what he wanted.”

“He made an example of you, didn’t he? That’s how you got-”

But Kurapika’s tongue ties in knots as he imagines Leorio with his hands tied to a post, defenseless, bucking up as a whip comes down on his skin over and over again - and the hand that deals the blows? Did it belong to the king?

No, Kurapika decides. Silva would have thought it beneath him to punish a servant, no matter how severe the accusation.

“It was Illumi, wasn’t it? The one who executed your punishment.”

With a crash, the door of the inn falls open and the group of ruffians from the previous night pours in. They drag in the smell of mud and old blood. They carry parcels wrapped in canvas that is in part stained red and stiff with frost. One of the parcels is dripping blood on the floor; a mage steps up to touch it and mutters under his breath, renewing the chilling spell.

Kurapika stiffens. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Leorio do the same.

At the end of the procession the portly leader of the ruffians struts in, as smug as a king. He even wears a crown: a pair of puny antlers is fastened to the brim of his hat.

Kurapika and Leorio exchange glances, sharing the same thought. It’s far from hunting season. Of course, this area is rumored to be ruled by poachers. But who could have guessed that they would tend to their crimes so openly?

The ruffians place their bounty on the nearest table and cry for ale.

Pokkle appears in the bar room, red-faced and sweating. “I thought I made myself clear,” he hisses, trying to keep his voice low. Even so, his tone is sour with anger. “I want none of your _ price meat _ in my inn.”

“What, and leave it out in the night for the wolves?”, the portly man says and his voice booms through the room. “Relax. We’re not here to sell. All we want is a drink after a hard day of work. You’re a man of business, surely you’re smarter than to turn away a group of potential customers.”

Pokkle grinds his teeth. Under his scrutiny, the ruffians straighten their back and square up their shoulders. No open threats are uttered - but the way they tense and turn toward him is suggestion enough.

Leorio’s draws his hands to his body, reaching into a sleeve as if he means to scratch his wrist. Teasing the blade of his dagger.

But Pokkle caves. He takes the order of the group with a venomous stare and disappears in the back. Leorio slumps in his chair and bites the inside of his cheek.

The ruffians scatter and seat themselves. Their leader is drawn to a spot by the fire. When he takes sight of Leorio, he tips his hat in greeting. Leorio returns the gesture with the grimace of a smile.

“Evenin’,” the portly man croons. “I see you’re still here. Eager for a rematch?”

“Don’t think so. We’re leaving tomorrow, gotta catch all the sleep I can get.”

The poacher smacks his lips and says “pity”. He jerks his head towards Kurapika; the antlers on his hat wobble dangerously. “I don’t think you’ve introduced me to your companion yet.”

“Pairo,” Kurapika says before a single syllable can leave Leorio’s mouth. “Pairo Parthis.” He does not offer his hand.

“I’m Tonpa. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Pairo. That’s a curious name you got there. Doesn’t sound very Hoshidan.”

“That’s because I’m not.”

“Funny, because your accent and your face suggest something else.”

“I’m from the border territories. Blood mingles quickly there.”

“And loyalties shift even quicker, I heard,” Tonpa adds, and laughs heartily. He is oblivious to the glare he receives.

Leorio clears his throat and inquires if there is something else that Tonpa needs. His tone is not hostile, but conveys that he would prefer for Tonpa to move on.

“No, not at all! You two enjoy the rest of your evening.” And with that, he turns his back on them, whistling.

Leorio pokes his second meat pie with no real appetite. After some consideration, he announces that he is ready to head to bed and wraps the treat in a napkin.

Kurapika’s attention still lingers on Tonpa’s back. “Are you sure?”, he asks. “The night is still young.”

Leorio’s head perks up. “What did you have in mind?”

Kurapika smiles and leans forward, beckoning Leorio to do the same. He lets his fingers grace along the sharp line of his companion’s chin; he strokes a smoothly shaved cheek. It’s for show, mostly, and Kurapika does not need to admit to anybody how it makes his heart race to bring their lips so close.

“Have you noticed the bow our poaching friend is carrying?”, Kurapika whispers, quiet as a sigh.

Leorio swallows. He presses his forehead against Kurapika’s, and the glance he steals can easily be read as shyness. “A Shimmering Bow. So he’s got a stronger skill with magic. What about it?”

“A magical weapon like this would be perfect for Alluka. But hard to come by. Now…” Kurapika grows so bold to let his thumb brush against the little dip under Leorio’s lip. “If only someone could convince Tonpa to part with it.”

“You want me to gamble for it?” Leorio’s voice grows rough.

“If you’re confident that it’s possible. Likely, even. I won’t ask you to waste your time on an impossible feat.”

Leorio grasps the hand that rests against his cheek and presses a kiss on the open palm, like a promise. “I can do it.”

Something in Kurapika’s chest flutters like a nervous bird.

 

There are countless tales of brave young men who set out on an impossible and magical quest to be rewarded with the hand of a fair maiden. There are tournaments held at court where the knights test their fighting skills against one another to gain the favor of a pretty young noblewoman.

Despite his family name, no knightly blood runs through Leorio’s veins. And he knows that life is nothing like in the stories; the most attention that a low born commoner like him can expect from a noble maiden is to be ordered to clean up after her. But there is something compelling about the simplicity of these tales. Of conquering a heart with a grand gesture.

Lulling Tonpa into betting his bow will prove a trickier ordeal than Leorio let on. Right now, Tonpa is still mulling over the loss of his coin. Leorio will have to do some losing to convince the poacher that his previous wins were the result of luck more than skill. In truth, all it takes is a quick eye and a good memory. For example, the Knave of Staves is a little worn out in the top left corner and the Ace of Hearts has a spot at the back where the color is fading. And the adventurer with the patchy looking beard has a habit of touching the sores on his lip whenever he has a bad hand.

Of course, Leorio can’t afford to lose too much either, for both the sake of his purse and his liver.

And so, he pursues a different strategy. Leorio plays it safe and boring, betting small sums and taking little risks. For Tonpa, who has had hopes of winning back a fortune, this proves quite tedious.

Five rounds and only one drink later, Leorio is nudged.

“What’s with you tonight? Did you lose all your gusto?”

“Eh. I’m not really in the mood. Winning money’s not nearly as exciting as the prospect of some quality sleep on a soft mattress.”

Tonpa sneers. “Spoken like a man who has too much of one and too little of the other.”

“Damn right,” Leorio agrees, and leans back with a cocky grin. “To be honest, I’m just passing the time until my sister’s fast asleep.”

“Oh? Are you expecting a nightly visit from the innkeeper’s wife?”, Tonpa jeers, and the whole table erupts into laughter, followed by some remarks on Ponzu’s physique - not all of them kind or appropriate - which prompts every man to loudly discuss their preferences. Between the  _ look, if she doesn’t have some meat on her bones, what’s even the point _ and the  _ doesn’t matter what a girl looks like, what counts is how she does on her knees _ , Leorio is very glad Kurapika did not decide to stay and watch.

(“I’m afraid if I have to spend a few more minutes in this man’s company, I will be tempted to kill either him or myself,” Kurapika had said before taking his leave. But his smile was warm and the ghost of his touch still lingered on Leorio’s cheek. Perhaps when he returned to their room, there might be more waiting for him than a cozy spot under the covers.)

“I’m not that partial to women,” Leorio lies. An awkward silent spreads through the group of poachers.  _ Good. _ Let them squirm.

Tonpa is the only one who seems unfazed. “So, if neither money nor women excite you, what does?”

“I’m glad you ask.” Leorio lets his knife slip into his hands and watches as the men jump to reach for their own - but he places the blade on the table and strokes its sharp edge with all the tenderness of a lover. “I love a cleverly made weapon. With women, you’ll never know if they’ll kiss or wreck you, but a blade is sure to make you bleed. You take one look at it and you’ll know how if it will disappoint you or not, and its beauty, if honed, does not fade so quickly. See the marbling of the steel? The shimmer of the wooden hilt? That, my friend, is poetry. But it seems-” Leorio regards the blank faces of the poachers one by one. “-that I’m preaching to the wrong crowd.”

Tonpa scratches his jaw. “In that case, maybe we can find something else to retrieve your enthusiasm for the game.”

“I’m all ears,” Leorio replies smoothly.

 

The bow is placed in the middle of the table.

Dark plum wine is poured in glasses, one for each player.

“New rules,” Tonpa says and raises his finger. “Whoever wins the first three rounds can claim the bow for himself. But, all of us have to drink before each round, regardless who wins and who loses. Does that sound agreeable?”

It does indeed.

The plum wine is sweet on the tongue and warm in the belly. Leorio has a great feeling about this, and it only grows stronger when his first hand is strong, a stroke of luck. He fidgets with his collar. Bites his nails. The bets rise and he wins with a flourish, turning two coins into fifteen.

When the second hand turns out poorer, he only bluffs his way halfway through the round. And chats. And chats and chats. He has a few medical anecdotes to share (obscuring names and places) and watches delightfully as the faces of his fellow players twist in disgust.

The third hand is nothing overwhelming, but good enough to bargain with. It comes to a tie and Leorio can claim his second win only by the color of his cards as red beats black.

Another round, another drink.

By the fifth round, his cheeks have grown quite hot from the wine and he notices a queasy little feeling settling below his navel. He blames it on the plums. Not so much the alcohol, which never caused him any trouble, but the very fruit it was distilled from. Over the course of the round the queasiness grows from a suggestion to a more urgent matter. Leorio jiggles his leg to distract himself from the sensation, but it’s hard to think of anything else. His skin starts to prickle. It feels taut. If only he could speed things up a little bit, but the men enjoy taking their time to consider - to heckle the other players, that is.

Even his heartbeat wants to rush; it beats erratic against his aching chest. If his own cards had been worse, he would have forfeited the round and excused himself, but he is so  _ close _ -

A cramp ripples through Leorio’s intestines. He clenches his teeth and hisses, and as it unfolds he can think of nothing but the sharp, taut-wired pain. And then he thinks _ ‘shitshitshit’  _ as his bowels begin to riot.

He needs to win this round, quick. He needs to win and leave.

 

Nanika jolts awake at the sound of a book closing, of a straw mattress rustling, of the floorboards groaning.

The man named Pika is pacing. He is pacing although the sky is still a true night blue. And Leorio is not around. Leorio has not been in the room for quite a while; Nanika can smell traces of his scent as it clings to to Pika, where it mingles with the sour note of anxiety and the coppery tang of old blood.

She rises, alarmed.

Pika turns at the noise. “Princess-” he says and interrupts himself when their eyes meet. His voice softens. “Nanika. Is something wrong?”

The peculiar thing about humans is that they ask questions when they already know the answer.

“Where is Leorio?”

“Still playing cards downstairs. But he should come to bed soon,” Pika adds. He grows nervous.

“Then I’ll go ask him how much longer it’ll take,” she decides, throwing back the covers.

“Wait! Don’t-”

But she is already halfway to the door.

“I’ll come with you,” Kurapika insists. He picks up the blue outlaw’s cloak and fastens it around her shoulders. (The cloak still smells like soap and precious sunlight hours and Nanika breathes in deeply.) She lets Pika take her by the hand.

“Watch your steps,” he whispers as they reach the stairs. But Nanika always watches her steps, always keeps her eyes on the ground when she is around strangers. Because folks get scared of her eyes.

The fire in the bar-room is burning low and the remaining patrons are shrouded in a cloud of man-stink: alcohol and arrogance and grime. She still smells Leorio among them; his scent is like a draft of air in a stuffy room.

He is pale and a little bit bent over. Sweating intensely.  _ Sick _ .

Nanika lets go of Pika and sprints to Leorio’s side. She throws her arms around him from behind and buries her face against his shoulder. Leorio nearly jumps at the contact. “A-Nanika? Poppet, what are you doing here, you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

She is listening to the language of his body, that’s what she’s doing. How his heart flutters, how viciously his belly trembles and aches. There’s poison whispering in his blood; she can sense the corruption.

“You need to come with me!” she says. Away from these people. Away, where she can heal him and no one will see.

“Nanika, this is a really bad time-”

“I’ll take your place,” Pika says and Leorio freezes. And then he gets to his feet so quick that the chair clatters across the floor. He all but shoves his cards in Kurapika’s hands and ushers Nanika to the kitchen. And beyond. He takes wider and wider steps and his breath comes short as he says: “Nanika, you need to give me a minute, alright, I’ll be-”

He is interrupted by a terrifying gargling noise below his stomach.

Leorio runs for the outhouse.

 

Kurapika looks over the cards in his hand with a bored sort of calm. Impossible to tell from his demeanor if he holds a winning hand or a poor one. The truth is, he does not know either way.

“Are you familiar with the game, Pairo Parthis?,” Tonpa asks. He seems almost amused as he plays with a clunky and truly gaudy ring on his middle finger. “Usually, we don’t just let another man step in if someone has to forfeit, but if you have a few drinks in your friend’s honor-”

“So you can drug me too?”

Tonpa stops fiddling.

“I have to admit, I thought your jewelry was just a matter of bad taste. I didn’t consider how a ring that size might easily hide some secrets. Nothing lethal, no, you’re not the type for that. You’re a coward. A thief. So yes, I know your game. It’s just too bad…”

Kurapika holds up his cards; they light up in flames.

“That we’re going to play by my rules now.”

 

 

A pillar of light burns into the sky, bringing a force that ripples through the delicate fabric of magic like a rock that has been toppled into the pond. It’s enough to make many a mage shiver in their sleep. Those who are awake raise their heads and stumble to their instruments, to locate the source of the ripple before it fades.

A few people witness the pillar by chance, but there is one who has been waiting for it. His jet black eyes narrow. He digs his heels in the flanks of his wyvern and leads the scaly beast back to the ground.

Tonpa and his merry band of no-good ruffians do not see the pillar at all. They are too busy screaming, running for their life. They pour out of the inn, every man scrambling and bumping against another as they all try to squeeze through the door at once.

Later, they will tell the story of a foreigner who was really a demon in disguise. Who summoned a fiery servant from the underworld, that leapt from the fireplace and chased them out of the woods.

It’s all nonsense, of course.

And yet, ever since that night, a scorched hand print is embedded in one of the inn’s tables.


End file.
